


Hurt

by pumpkinpeasy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Caring Castiel, Castiel Has Secrets, Castration, Character Death, Cock Cages, Codependency, Coming Untouched, Dark Sam Winchester, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Orgasm, Fuck Or Die, Gang Rape, Genital Torture, Heavy Angst, Heavy BDSM, Human Trafficking, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Incest, Kidnapping, M/M, Master/Slave, Parent/Child Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Scarification, Sibling Incest, Slave Dean, Slave Trade, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpeasy/pseuds/pumpkinpeasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stranger paused, allowing him a last glance. “Please… Sam…?” he breathed, and Sam stepped outside. “Master…?”</p><p>Sam sighed wistfully, coming down and gently cupping his slave’s face with two, warm, heavy hands. “Dean, I want you to go with him, okay?” he said, “He’s gonna be your new master.”</p><p>Dean’s eyes watered hard, tears threatening their escape any second, now. “But… You said I was yo-urs.” he managed, voice breaking from the pressure.</p><p>“And now, you’re his. Don’t misunderstand, Dean… you’ve been beautiful and good, but it’s time for you to go.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean laid on the floor, more terrified than ever, as he listened to the conversing coming from upstairs. He didn’t know if they knew he was down there, but he’d tried to listen to as much as he could, through the pain and the dizziness. The cellar was pitch-black, as usual, save for a single beam of light from beneath the door at the top of the stairs. He himself was left in the shadow, to lie and quake in his cuffs, atop an old mattress. The fabric held more bodily fluids than he’d like to discuss, but nonetheless, he was left there.  
  
His wrists were rubbed raw from the cuffs around them, the thin metal biting into the tender flesh there. The same problem was at his ankles, where the heavy shackles sat, the chain giving him no more than three feet of reach.  
  
The conversing paused, just after he’d caught something about a trade. A pang of horror struck through him, when he considered that he may in fact be the merchandise. Those three other guys had just left, and he still had a disgusting taste in his mouth; he wasn’t up for more, so fast. Dean shifted slightly, and almost cried out when the metal cage around his dick bit into the sensitive flesh. He didn’t move anymore. A regular breeze of cold air was breathing out of the vents, chilling his skin and sending goosebumps all over his milky-white body. A sudden shifting upstairs, made him freeze. He heard Sam’s straightforward, commanding voice, order what sounded like for the door to be opened.

A single agonizing moment later and the door was indeed creaking open, letting several pairs of footsteps echo downstairs. Dean’s whole body was shaking, a fine tremor rattling through him, the metal of the shackles and cuffs jittering quietly in time with him.  
  
The huge shadows plastered on the wall slowly made their way down, purposefully terrifying him to the brink of tears. He was helpless, laying on his side on the stained, gross mattress as people funneled downstairs. Dean was biting his lip so hard the flesh was blanching white, the edges of his teeth near drawing blood by the time that everyone had appeared. Of course, there was Benny, his handler. He was standing stocky and rough near the base of the stairs, as Sam flicked the lights on. Sam took his position in the center of the room, facing Dean, his dark eyes narrowed at him, and raking their gaze over his meager form.

Benny was giving him the glare that told him, always told him, _“Be good, be still... or there’s a fucking whip comin’ your way”._ Dean’s heart froze, when he saw there was a newcomer. He had suddenly come into his eyeline, from his sad little point of view-- Or, at least, the feet of black boots. He didn’t move his eyes upward; he only laid there for a moment.  
  
“So, this is Dean.” Sam said on a sigh, folding his arms across his chest. “He’s pretty good, if you’re looking for a dog. Knows how to sit, stay… Been like this for almost three years, and he’s taking it like a champ.”  
  
For some reason, Dean felt so heavily reassured that Sam thought he was doing well. When, usually, he’d beat him senseless if he put a toe out of line. The fact that he was good and he was taking it like a champ, so to speak, actually made him feel less worried than if he was disproven.  
  
“I presume he had to be trained?” came a gravelly, dark voice from above.  
  
“Only a little. After about six months, he was good.” Sam clarified. He never took his gaze off Dean… Not once. “Now, he’s real emotional, so there were some adjustments made.. But he’s pretty much silent, speaks when spoken to, and so on.”  
  
“Mm-hmm… Does he normally wear a cock cage?” queried the same voice from before.  
  
Sam shifted slightly. “Sometimes, usually when we have… guests over, y’know?” he let out a dry laugh, and the man overhead returned it somewhat wryly. “So, he’s nice and respectful, does what he’s told. He only really needs food once a day, water twice, so he’s not really high-maintenance.”  
  
The man hummed his approval, quiet and mysterious as ever. Tears prickled at Dean’s eyes, as the light burned into them, but God forbid he ever looked somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. “I like what I see.” the man noted softly, much to Sam’s liking. “Can he sit up, though? I’d like to see his face.”  
  
“Dean. _Up.”_  
  
At Sam’s word, he wriggled upward in his metal cuffs, and managed to force himself into a sitting position on the mattress. With trembling limbs, it was difficult, but he’d long since worked past that, with the kind of people that would visit. He stayed naked and shivering, keeping his eyes glued to the floor until the man knelt down in front of him, and cupped his face in his hands. He tilted his head up, to get a better look at Dean, and he could practically feel the hot breath on his skin.  
  
“Open your eyes.” came a whisper.  
  
Dean opened his eyes accordingly, bright peridot beauties for show. He got an eyeful of the guy who was apparently buying him: He was white, had short dark hair, and pretty features - stressing the ‘pretty’ as much as possible. However, this could be his new master, so he tried not to demean him at all in his mind. The man was in layers of dark clothes, suddenly making him feel so much more naked than he already was.  
  
“Gorgeous. Very pretty.” the man said, licking his lips thoughtfully before his eyes were drawn to something at Dean’s neck. “What’s this mark? Looks like he was attacked by an animal.”  
  
“Mark of ownership.” Benny spoke softly, sighing. The man touched the branded, burnt-in mark at the joint of his neck to his collarbone. His fingers were light and gentle against his skin, as he looked at it for a moment, and considered Dean further. “Feel free to mark over it with something your own.”  
  
The man’s eyes traveled lower, horribly lower, and fell upon his groin. He wasn’t looking at the cock cage, no… He was squinting at the reddened bruising and sores around his genitals, the smears of blood around infected blisters. The empty space between his legs, where his balls should have been. Dean nearly started sobbing when the man made a disgusted face. He bit his lip to refrain from crying, and watched as the man drew to his feet.  
  
“So, you gonna take him?” Sam asked, quirking his eyebrows, as he leaned over to see Dean. “Get back on your mess.”  
  
Sam added these words for full effect, forcing him to squirm backwards and sit in the middle of that disgusting, fluid-stained mattress. He felt so much pain as he moved in the cuffs and in the cock cage, but his mind couldn’t afford to register anything but conversation, right now. The guy let go of Dean’s face and straightened up, turning back to the two others.  He gave him a glance, before replying.  
  
“Yes, I think so.” he replied, and Sam smiled, nodding, Benny doing the same. “You said fifteen grand, right?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s it.” his handler confirmed quietly, while they all grouped in the center of the room.  
  
Dean was shivering uncontrollably now, tears leaking from his welled-up eyes. He hated where he was at, and what people paid and used him for, but this guy could be anybody. He could be a murderer, or a torture master, a fucking maniac that had a blood fetish. Either way, Benny went over to Dean, taking out the keys and unlocking his shackles, letting them drop onto the floor. As suspected, his ankles were rubbed raw-red as well, bruised slightly from the constant metallic friction. He froze again, at the look Benny shot him, before he stood up, pulling Dean with him.  
  
Standing was so different, somehow. He’d spent most of his time on his back, or his stomach, sometimes on his knees, but he was rarely allowed the space or freedom to stand. His knees wobbled uncertainly until he gained his balance again, then Benny dipped behind a stack of metal mesh-crates, and pulled out Dean’s old pair of jeans. Sam and the unknown man were talking, as he was put into his jeans, his heart sinking painfully, when he wasn’t allowed to take the cock cage off. His mind was thrumming, as he was led upstairs, by Benny’s hand, followed by the two others.  
  
The cock cage and rough fabric of the jeans were agonizing against his sores, as he was forced to walk upstairs. The light burned and singed at his eyes, as they walked up. Being shoved to a dark corner for so long, he hadn’t seen much of it in the past three years. He scrunched his eyes shut from the shock, just following his handler. He was in denial of what was happening for only a moment, until he was at the door, and was standing next to his new owner, it seemed.  
  
It was only when the man put an arm around his bare, chilled shoulders, that he really felt what was coming. He felt like crying right then and there, just abandoning this forced silence and shell that he was pushed into, and sobbing uncontrollably, because this was it. He was being given away, to someone who could be far, far worse than Sam and his friends. At least here, he’d come to know his jobs and his punishments.  
  
Sam’s punishments made him want to die… but it was better than being alone. He heard Benny moving around behind them, opening something, and a long pause.  
  
“It’s all here.” Benny said, after a while.  
  
“Alright.” Sam said, reaching out and shaking the man’s hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
In another second, Dean was being pulled outside, led down the steps into the night. It was freezing against him, pushing and shoving him into shivers and goosebumps, as he was led to a dark car outside. Dean twisted in his grip, looking back up the steps at Sam, eyes wide and pleading with him. The stranger paused, allowing him a last glance.  
  
“Please… Sam…?” he breathed, and Sam stepped outside. “Master…?”  
  
Sam sighed wistfully, coming down and gently cupping his slave’s face with two, warm, heavy hands. “Dean, I want you to go with him, okay?” he said, “He’s gonna be your new master.”  
  
Dean’s eyes watered hard, tears threatening their escape any second, now. “But… You said I was yo-urs.” he managed, voice breaking from the pressure.  
  
“And now, you’re his. Don’t misunderstand, Dean… you’ve been beautiful and good, but it’s time for you to go.”  
  
The man looked at him, as he felt his new ‘dog’ shuddering in his grip, giving Dean what almost had to be a sympathetic look. Sam gave that not-quite a frown, before letting him go into the arms of his new holder. The stranger watched him, as he couldn’t stop looking at Sam. He eased him into the backseat of the car, before getting into the driver’s side, and taking a long look at him in the rearview. The pain in Dean’s wrists and groin seemed to halt for a moment, when he felt a pang of pure, unvarnished fear, at the sight of those daggerlike eyes.  
  
It was going to be a long drive.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
“Alright. We’re here.” came the same rough voice as before.  
  
Dean took note immediately, tearing his gaze from the skyscape outside, the beautiful night and trees. He forced himself to sit at attention, not looking out the windows anymore, even though he desired nothing more than just that. His back shuddered, as the door was opened again, chilly night air hitting his skin once more.  
  
His master pulled him out of the car, none too roughly, just intent on getting him out. The first thing he saw was the familiar face; then, the house. It was a bungalow that stood agedly, the outside appearing as though even ages of wear and weathering couldn’t bring down this dark house. He followed his new master up towards said house, his back tingling from the hand placed there at all times.  
  
Inside, it was fantastic, in Dean’s opinion. It was dark and old, sure, but inside it was warm and friendly, inviting, even. Normal furniture was situated throughout, all in dark colours or undertones, which told Dean that his master preferred to not focus on aesthetics. Just then, he took out the key from his pocket, and gently lifted Dean’s wrists, unlocking the cuffs and tossing them on the side table. He flexed his hands, able to do so without scathing pain on his wrists.  
  
“Will you come upstairs?” his master asked.  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
He seemed to squint at Dean’s voice, small and raw though it was, he was trying his best to be respectful. His master nodded through the doorway, and led him up accordingly, to the second floor. Dean followed him into a bedroom, where it was open and warm when his master turned on the light. Dean was soon sitting on the bed, and his master was telling him to lie back.  
  
“Just lie down; I’m going to take your jeans off.” he assured him.  
  
Dean laid back as he was told, shivering when his master unbuttoned his old, stained jeans and pulled them down and away. He winced, his heart kicking in his chest, hoping that this wasn’t what he thought it was. He clung to that little piece of hope and innocence that he had left, and waited for something. Something, anything; a slap, a tug at his cock cage just for the play of pain, even the touch of a hand, but nothing came. Instead, he heard him digging around in the nightstand for something. God forbid it was a whip, or another painful toy, like the ones Sam used on him, but no. He came back with a fucking bobby pin.  
  
“Sam didn’t give me your key for this.” he said, “So I guess it’s lockpicking...”  
  
Silent, he sat beside Dean and gently - carefully started picking the lock on his cock cage. Dean swallowed wetly when his master cautiously slid the metal cage off of Dean’s dick, a fresh surge of pain erupting like a string of firecrackers down there. His breathing shuddered hard, when the metal was removed and held away from him, just letting his bruised and aching member lie soft against his thigh. The man’s gaze lingered on the pusy, split-open sores over Dean’s privates, suddenly feeling the need to wash his hands. Dean whimpered quietly, as he felt his Master’s eyes boring into him.  
  
Cas was tempted to trace a finger over the mottled scar tissue covering a wound where Dean had been castrated. Simply out of sheer human curiosity - but he refrained easily, out of human respect.  
  
“You won’t need this anymore.” his master said, and Dean heard the dirty metal thudding to the bottom of the wastebasket. “Any better?”  
  
“Yes, master.” Dean said, as he was eased up, back into a sitting position.  
  
“You don’t need to call me that.” his master said, giving him a sympathetic half-smile. “My name is Cas.”  
  
“I should… Cas.” he stumbled over the words, unpracticed at saying much but _“Yes, sir”,_ and _“Please, master”._ It was so demeaning, so pathetic, as he reflected on his inabilities again. Then, Cas squeezed his shoulder gently, and cupped his face, lifting his gaze to his own.  
  
“Do you need a shower?” he asked, thumbing over Dean’s cheekbone. Dean, who had his hands placed awkwardly upon his knees, and his eyes purposefully downcast, should he be unallowed to look at his master. “I don’t think he had cleaned you very often.”  
  
“No, sir.” he said, before he could think about it. “I… should, shower.”  
  
He definitely should shower, after years of briefly, occasionally, being hosed down outside, if that. He wasn’t even that sure about it, whether or not his built-up grime and filth would come off, after being coated in… He’d rather not say. To put it delicately, it reeked, and Dean would never look at urinating the same way again.  
  
“Alright. Well, follow me, and we can get you into a bath.” Cas said, standing up. “Does that sound okay?”  
  
Dean nodded.  
  
Cas gave him a watery smile and pulled him out of bed, gently leading him to the bathroom across the hall. His new master was oddly thoughtful of him, letting him take off the cock cage, even going so far as to say that he wouldn’t need it anymore. A burst of water streamed from the faucet in a loud hiss, and when the tub was getting fuller, Cas ushered him in and Dean delicately slid into the hot water. It felt amazing against his skin, tender and bruised though it may be, it was almost fortifying. He wanted to bathe in it, and at the same time, he was thirsty as all Hell, and he wanted to drink it. His master knelt down beside him, taking off his jacket, and casting it someplace beside the door.  
  
“I thought I’d help you wash your back… Is that alright?” he asked.  
  
“Yes, sir.” Dean said, but meant it genuinely. He doubted he could reach back there, what with the pain in his arms, and he was longing to feel the hot water on his shoulders.  
  
“Okay. Well, afterward, we’re going to have to disinfect these.” Cas pointed out, lightly touching the bitemarks and open cuts on his shoulders, his back, and arms. “Pretty much all of them, considering where you were kept.”  
  
Suddenly, a hot rush of water was poured over his back, and Dean’s eyes fluttered shut. He swallowed wetly, feeling it wash down him a second time, and then something soft was pressed to his back, and gently started wiping off the dirt and grime from his skin. A sponge in Cas’s hand, heedfully cleaning his new… What was Dean supposed to be called? It seemed that his master wanted to maintain some kind of a friendly relation with him, unlike his old master, who thought of him as little more than crap on the bottom of his shoe.  
  
More water was poured, almost lovingly down his back, as his master kindly pushed the soft sponge over his broken, bruised skin, and he was left in a state of actual bliss. It was like a dream, but only better.  
  
Cas couldn’t help but stare at the scars. Dean understood why. The unique patterns of cigarette burns, whip-lashings, bitemarks, and badly-healed slices, were like a train wreck. He knew Cas didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t stop looking.  
  
When it was all said and done, and Dean had been cleaned up as much as possible, the water was well beyond dirty and his wounds didn’t hurt as badly. That is, until Cas had started disinfecting them with a safe wound cleanser, and some of them had been bandaged. He was still confused that this wasn’t some bizarre dream, and that he was going to wake up shaking and sobbing on the floor of the cellar, with more men waiting to take him.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Dean.”_  
  
The voice broke through his thoughts, and shocked him back into reality.  
  
“Dean, you should eat and get some rest… It’s not good for you to be like this.” Cas said, gentle-petting his hollow cheek. He felt a sudden sense of security and amity from this man, leaving him unruffled and serene, more so than he’d been with men in years. “Here. Come with me.”  
  
Cas kindly let him up, and started helping him into a new set of clothes. He was slipping a soft t-shirt over Dean’s head, when he had to speak to his master.  
  
“May I ask a question?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Dean tugged uneasily at the hem of his tee. “Why are you so kind to me, sir?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t sound as pathetic as he thought. “You don’t have to be... I don’t deserve it.”  
  
“What do you mean, you don’t deserve it?” his master asked, “You’re not my slave, Dean. You’re not being forced to stay here, whereas when you were with Sam, you didn’t have a choice. I can’t imagine… The things that he and his friends did to you, but I promise you, none of that remains here.”  
  
Cas lightly placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, giving him that same, empathetic look. He hated feeling as if he induced that stare, but he couldn’t help it, with his appearance. He was very underweight for someone his size, and his skin was a pale, milky-white, from years lacking sunlight. He hadn’t really gotten a good look at himself in the mirror, and he wasn’t certain that he wanted to. Why Cas was still looking at him, he barely had a clue.  
  
He placed his hands on Dean’s shoulders, which were much more apparent and sharp than they should be. In a minute or two, he was downstairs again and Cas was asking him what he liked to eat. His skeptical face when Dean said he didn’t know, made him feel a little more out-of-touch.

He tried to eat as slowly as he could, but he felt like he was starving. Mac and cheese was possibly the best thing he’d ever eaten, as far as he was concerned. He vaguely remembered his master going into the living room to relax, stretching and yawning similarly to a cat, before Dean finished and took his things to the kitchen. Almost absentmindedly, he washed them and set them to dry, but nearly jumped out of his skin when his master crept into the room, and told him to go to sleep.  
  
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you… It’s just, you’re drained, and tired…” Cas said pointedly, gently cupping his shoulder again. “I can help you upstairs, if you like.”  
  
“No, sir, I can manage.” he said stiffly, cringing as his master’s hand laid softly on his shoulder. “Thank you.”  
  
Cas nodded his understanding, and Dean made his way to the upstairs bedroom, where he’d been taken earlier. It wasn’t easy, but he was used to not showing pain unless his master wanted to see it, usually for gratification. And his new master clearly didn’t fancy seeing it, at least right now. His room was large, uncluttered. Free for him to sleep in, as far as Cas had told him. With trembling fingers, he shut off the lamp and laid himself in bed. Dean was almost startled for a minute, as he felt himself sink into the mattress deeply, the cushiony thing like a marshmallow. He sat up.  
  
_“I can’t do this.”_ he thought.

It might be a game. A huge, elaborately-planned game and altogether unexpected, but nonetheless, this might be a test. Sam might be straining his loyalty, and he may very well be in for something terrible, if he didn’t run now and get back to him. He did regularly push his limits, and scare him, burn him with cigarettes in the most humiliating of places, shave his head and make him grow it out again, and things of the like. What’s to say that this wasn’t a test? Dean started shaking again, his grip on the quilts tightening as he was suddenly in a panic. This was a test.  
  
He quietly got out of bed and began traipsing down the stairs, stepping lighter than he’d ever stepped before. The sores and bruises between his legs were hurting so much, from the walking and trying to move quietly, but it was absolutely essential that he make it out of here, now. The lights were down, sending the house, the bungalow, into a veil of darkness that was horribly familiar. Through the tense dark, he managed to make it to the front door, and, to no truth, was it unlocked. Dean jiggled the door handle another time, pulled and tugged, but the fact was, he’d have to find another way out.  
  
The lights suddenly flicked on. “Dean?”  
  
Dean whipped around, feeling a pang of fear punch his heart as he did so. “I’m sorry.” he whimpered, his voice higher and more pained than usual. “I’m sorry, sir.”  
  
“Dean, it’s alright.” Cas said, crossing the room.  
  
“I’m so sorry...” he kept puling apologies and keeping his eyes glued to the floor, trying not to look at his master if he wasn’t permitted. “...I’m sorry, Master.”  
  
“Dean…” his master said finally, now before him and cupping his jaw with two soft, warm hands. Dean cringed hard, again, as his master’s hand was placed on his shoulder, and he checked the door’s lock. “Dean, it’s okay. I just want to know what happened.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir. I was…” he tried, but tears were already coming. And he didn’t know what was happening here, but it was new and terrifying, and he was so scared, all the time, he was scared.  
  
“Shh, it’s okay. Dean, I understand...” his master hushed, just holding him close, and making sure he didn’t cringe too hard when he touched him. When Dean shivered at his back being touched, Cas moved his hand to someplace more comfortable for him. Dean barely looked up, as his owner’s hand was gently resting on his arm. “You don’t have to explain, Dean. You feel lost, but… You don’t have to go back there.”  
  
“I do. I do; I love him. He’s-- he was my _master.”_ he trembled hard, gasping wet air as he was suddenly lost in a wave of tears. “I love him so mu-ch…”

Castiel didn’t say anything more, but he kept him in his arms and didn’t let go. If he hadn’t needed to stay strong enough for the both of them, Cas doubted he would have been able to keep from doing the same as Dean. This poor man, who had a full life ahead of him, and had been tortured and abused by his last owner. Truly, his last owner, because Castiel didn’t own him, and nobody ever would, ever again.  
  
There was something broken, here, and Dean was so terrified of his master, Sam, that he couldn’t imagine disobedience. So Cas was stroking his hair, and he was whispering small words to him, like “Dean,” and “it’s alright,” and “you’re safe.” But they all meant the same to him. Disobedience.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
“Cas…?” Dean had asked softly, after the tears died away.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Why did you take me?” he asked. “Away from there? Sam.”  
  
Cas visibly tensed, jaw working uneasily as he wished to say something. He pressed his lips into a tight line, looking back up at Dean with those icy blue eyes that could chill.  
  
“I’m working on something. I’m… trying to pull you all out of there.” he confessed quietly. Dean must have made a puzzled face, because then his master continued on, “There are houses around your brother’s operation, a small network of human traffickers, buying and selling, swapping people like trading cards.”  
  
Dean nodded. He knew well of this, after all. “Well, there is a certain agent who provided me with the means to rescue one.” Cas said.  
  
“...Why didn’t he let you rescue them all, sir?”  
  
“It would’ve been too suspicious. A buyer, suddenly showing up to purchase every one of them. There are more, going in to rescue the others, I promise.” Cas said, leaning forward in his chair and nearing Dean. “The others will make it out, and when they do, I swear that Sam will never again see the light of day.”  
  
Dean swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly a desert. “And he sent you to take _me?”_  
  
Cas nodded, giving a relaxed smile. “You’re my charge.”

It took a long time for Dean to fall asleep, that night. Longer than Castiel had really expected. For a couple of hours, Dean laid there, trying to rest and doing his best to get some sleep, but every little creak of the house would suddenly make him start. Cas could only imagine that every creak and shift of the bungalow would remind him of the cellar, and every twitch of the tree branches against a window somewhere would remind him of taunting and humiliation. But, in due time, he was sleeping sound and finally getting some rest.  
  
Nearly six-o’clock in the morning, and Dean had only just been pulled under by the weariness and lack of energy, curled up and sleeping under the covers. Cas didn’t know, didn’t have a bleeding clue, what Dean had been through over the past three years, but it was enough to wrack him scared and loyal to his abuser.  
  
For a little while, Cas listened to the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Dean’s breathing as he slept, careful not to touch him, but always making sure that he didn’t shock awake from nightmares.  
  
His so-called “master” carefully, quietly crept downstairs, as if he’d wake at the slightest sound. The thoughts of Sam, his old master, his beautiful light; hadn’t left his mind, even in the depths of sleep. He missed him. He needed him to take him back, and he couldn’t stay here. A pang of horrible betrayal, the feeling of being cast aside, sank into his heart. Something was fucked up, here, and he couldn’t fix it unless Sam wanted to take him back. But… if he _wanted_ him back, he wouldn’t have given him up to a stranger.  
  
His dreams were filled with taunting and torture… Something he hadn’t stopped feeling for years.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *

Dean was suddenly in the cellar again. His mind was numb. His body was a wave of pain and insecurity, as Sam, Benny, and a few men came downstairs. Bystanders to what they were about to witness, more like. The foggy glare of the yellowish light was blinding him, leaving him a dizzied mess as Sam and Benny flipped him over, and laid him on his stomach. Whips were cracked against flesh, cigarettes were burnt and twisted into his skin, pain shocking in echoes through Dean’s body. He was there, and he felt it, but not with the same _pang_ that he did when it first happened.  
  
First, it was one man. He wasted no time in spreading Dean’s legs, rolling on a condom, and pushing in. It was long, and painful. Bloody. Dean wasn’t allowed to make any noise. Not even a whimper, till the man came. Then, his attacker groaned, and Dean felt the thin rubber swell with the hot fluid. In a blink, two others were atop him. One was by his head, the other replacing the man between his legs. Sam was then standing above him, as the man pushed his cock into Dean’s mouth. His brother leaned down, tracing the actual, visible bulge in his throat, giving a small squeeze until Dean gagged hard.  
  
It was rough and long, seemed to go on forever, but when Dean saw what was coming next, he actually wished it’d gone on longer. His heart sank and throbbed, at seeing a strange metal tool in Sam’s hands, akin to tongs. His master said that he didn’t want Dean to enjoy this. Not ever. Then, knelt beside him and fixed the mouth of the tongs around Dean’s sac, his brother trembling in his grip as the clamps tightened. Sam took his knife from his jeans, and fixed his eyes on Dean.  
  
_“Don’t scream.”_  
  
But Dean did scream, as the metal blade sliced through the center of his sac, splitting it open, then two more cuts to sever his balls from the inside. Dean was writhing and crying, bleeding, as Sam then sliced away the scrotum tissue, and removed the tongs. He felt the blood drying on his thighs, and he just couldn’t stop crying.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *

Dean was met when he woke with a harsh beam of sunlight.  
  
His heart throbbed once, twice, and then he was gone in a wave of tears and terror. He was sobbing hard, curled tight and shaking atop the bed, before Cas came running in.  
  
“What’s wrong? What happened-- Dean…”  
  
He rushed over to Dean, and knelt beside him, put his arms around him, hushed him quiet. Dean was sobbing so violently, each spasm of his shoulders sent him jerking forward into Cas’s arms. He was his master… how was he supposed to forget that?

   
Time passed wearily by, and Dean had tried learning his way around the place. The bungalow was small, probably only fit for one or two people, but to Dean it was so much more than that. It was somehow growing… safer. So closed-off, Dean hadn’t left the house since he was traded, and it felt so much better that way. He was still figuring things out, and it would take longer, but right now he was feeling the safest he’d felt in a long time.  
  
“Dean, do you want something to eat, or drink?” came Cas’s voice, half an hour later.  
  
“No, but thank you.” he murmured.  
  
There wasn’t a doubt in his mind, that Cas could see it. The weariness in his eyes, the poorly-hidden tremor that shook his body whenever he was touched. He just wanted to run away from this, and back to his dark, disgusting cave, or whatever Cas thought it was. He’d rarely been outside in years, and he was broken. He needed someone to take care of him, but not Cas… His Master, was the only one who knew him. The only one who thought he was good.  
  
Cas had been caring for him forgivingly, almost lovingly, sympathetic for the pitiful dog. The pitiful, scarred, castrated, raped dog, who was clueless and pathetic and didn’t deserve his love. As far as his duties had gone, Dean had been left wanting. He was used to doing many things; cooking, cleaning, obeying orders, none of which lied here for him. His heart ached and his mind raced, all day and all night, for some way to get back to his Sam, his Sammy.  
  
He dreamt of him every night, one way or another. The harsh slap of his whip, or of his beautiful hazel eyes, soft with kindness and giving. Dean was so confused… He knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t tell what; like a mysterious ache in the back of his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Reminiscence has never been ideal for Dean. He didn’t want to think about the past, present, nor future, but particularly the past. His mind favored the thought of letting those memories go, stepping forward, taking it one day at a time. Perhaps that was the reason he could remember little from before his incarceration. Now that he needed those memories, more than ever, he laid on the bed and delved into the deeper reaches of darkness that pervaded his once-unharmed psyche. It all simply came over him like a swelling wave, rolling through his mind, raining down memories of his imprisonment.

 _“Sam… Sam, please…”_  
  
_“Shh, Dean, ‘m not gonna hurt you.”_  
  
_“Sam, you are!”_  
  
_“Mmm… Just need someone. Need you with me, Dean. You won’t leave me... right?”_  
  
Dean was clinging to the mattress, fingers clamped down on the edge so tight that the flesh of his hands was turning white. The cuffs around his wrists were tight and rubbing his wrists a raw red. He felt so small, so insignificant, next to someone like Sam. He was a tall, bulky hunter, and what was he? A rejected man, who didn’t have the strength to get out of bed in the morning, much less fight off someone Sam’s size.  
  
Dean had been imprisoned and tortured. And where was he now? Being pinned to his bed by his little brother, a searing pain shooting upwards when another slick finger breached his rim. His whimpers and pleas went unheard, drowned out by the constant stream of “I miss you, Dean,” and “I’m alone.” He knew damn well that Sam was alone-- He had to clench his teeth, when Sam started pumping those three fingers in and out. He’d never thought that that place would be used for something like this.  
  
A fine tremor rattled through his disheveled body, fearful sweat dawning upon pale skin drained of blood, fingers numbing as he kept clutching helplessly at the mattress. Sam’s long, skilled fingers nimbly scissored and slid deeper. A few stray tears tracked down his cheeks, his body shivering hard when Sam touched something inside.  
  
Dean’s cry of disgust was all he got.  
  
“Shush.” he whispered, pressing himself harder against him, leaning all his weight into Dean and keeping him pinned to the bed.

“Mmnngh, ohh-- _No!”_ Dean cried, as he kept circling what had to be his prostate. “No, stop it! Sam… Sam, you’re better than this.”

“No, I’m not.” he chuckled dryly, alcohol-scented breath hot and wet on his skin. It made goosebumps erupt all over his bare flesh. “I’m worse.”  
  
Part of him didn’t want to resist Sam at all. He wanted Sam to be happy, and be pleased, to be his old self again. A sliver of him knew that if he went through with this, Sam would get better. His heart dropped to his stomach, when he felt the hunter slowly easing out his fingers, and heard him greasing himself up. Dean knew what part he was touching, readying for the broken man. Then, he was shoved back down against the mattress, face smashed into the fabric as Sam was rubbing the head of his dripping cock against his hole.  
  
Dean was crying, now, just sobbing as Sam started pushing in.  
  
“Shut up.” he hissed, harsher this time.  
  
“Sam, please!” he tried, “Please.”  
  
Still, Sam broke past his tight barrier, spearing him hard onto the thick, solid length he boasted, Dean feeling as if he was being split in half. He cried out and writhed under Sam, scrabbling uselessly at the floor before he was even fully sheathed. Sam groaned softly, easing the rest of himself in, and he wasn’t even done yet.  
  
“Sam, please, I know-- I k-know you’re a good man…” he gasped, shuddering as he felt the heavy, blood-fattened weight resting inside himself, now. “I know you’re still good!”  
  
Sam swallowed wetly, before clasping his large, dextrous hands onto Dean’s hips, and started thrusting. It burned like fire and he felt the skin splitting, Sam’s ample cock filling him too much. There were hot tears dripping onto his naked, shivering back, fingers digging in painfully at his hip bones. Again, he pulled almost all the way out, then pushed back in once more, to fill that broken man and do it all over.  
  
“Please-- please, please… Sam, you’re-- _Aa-ahh!”_ he trailed off into a sharp yelp of pain, as Sam took to quickening his pace. Suddenly, Dean was being jostled up and down on the mattress, the man thumping into him with a resentful, hating force. The chains on Dean’s shackles rattled rhythmically, with each pulse of his hips.

He’d never hurt Sam. He had never tried to, or wanted to, and he had yet to do him bodily harm such as this. But this wasn’t about Sam… it was about Dean. The throbbing, ample organ was driving in again, the slick Sam used starting to help ease the way, but it didn’t take away the stretch and the pain. He was left to cry and tremble his way through it, alone, just as Sam was alone when Dean had left him.  
  
The very thought… Benny and the others simply standing by in the room above them, as Sam pummeled his brother into the mattress. Dean was forced to watch, as his nails scratched up Dean’s back, leaving marks and scratches in the skin for him to see later. Sam’s grunting was growing deeper, his thrusts and rocking becoming more determined. The hard organ was nothing short of a phallic rod, jabbing at his insides and stretching him to the point of crippling burns.  
  
Sam was never this way; he was so kind and loving, so nurturing, and suddenly that was gone. Replaced, by a darker, more demented and scarred version of Sam who was vengeful in his acts towards him. If he hadn’t left Sammy’s his life, this wouldn’t have happened.  
  
“Fuck-- Dean…” he ground out, viciously pounding Dean into the mattress, dripping sweat and scraping bruises into his hips. His balls were slapping against the man’s ass, leaving Dean to just cling desperately and hope he would finish.  
  
Sam’s thrusting seemed to go on for so long, and so hard, till his movements began turning jagged and needy. He was grinding into Dean, heavy balls flush to his backside as Sam strained to keep up his tempo. He was gasping into Dean’s back, face pressed into one chilled, sweaty shoulder, cursing under his breath.  
  
“God, it’s been so long… shit--” Sam groaned, almost a whisper.  
  
Dean felt it coming before Sam did. His mind was counting how many times he thrust, each time Sam punched his hips forward and speared Dean onto his cock again. _“...thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two…”_ he just kept counting, not even sure it was the right number, but he needed something to ground him. To keep him here. He was nearly breaking the flesh of his lips, trying not to give Sam the satisfaction of his terrified whimpers.

One more time, Sam’s tempo sped up and he was frantically rutting into him, plunging himself in with a dark, manic need. Each shove elicited a grunt from Sam, locking himself into Dean’s tight, virgin heat over and over. His heart thundered and his body trembled, still counting, well into the sixties now. _“Sixty-thr-- sixty-four, sixty-six, sixty-nine…”_ and then Sam was going too fast for him to tell. The large, sweaty body atop him shuddered, moaning deep, and Dean actually felt Sam’s cock _swell_ a moment before exploding inside him with a gush of release.

Dean cried out sharply, as Sam sunk a bite into his shoulder. The man’s heart stopped suddenly, feeling the thick, hot fluid spurting inside him, filling up his bowels and Sam’s body shivered with each orgasm. He quivered and writhed atop him, pressing him harder into the bed as he tirelessly fucked through his climax. Sam slowly finished spilling himself, his jaw relaxing slightly, the tight grip of his teeth around Dean’s flesh going slack. He felt it when Sam stopped coming, when his cock didn’t pulse anymore, and when Sam’s fingernails didn’t dig into his skin. The hunter’s large hands loosened their grip on his hips, his cock beginning to soften while still fully seated in Dean’s hole.  
  
Perhaps the withdrawal was worse than the breach; it hurt incredibly bad, when Sam eventually began pulling out. Even though his swollen size was dwindling as he went flaccid, his bruised, bleeding hole stung horribly as he withdrew. Dean trembled when Sam was out of him.  
  
“Sam…” he murmured, eyes wet and mouth open in a broken, silent sob.  
  
He didn’t dare to look at the hunter. He only shut his eyes and felt the mattress heave as Sam stood up. With a few noises and the jangling of his belt buckle, he was gone in a minute or two. Though Sam’s footfalls soon died away up the staircase, Dean was left on the mattress, open and ruined. He mustered his strength for the moment, out of desperation, and crawled off the bed. His legs were nearly numb, as he hauled himself to his knees. His throat was burning with the need to vomit.  
  
Tears tracked down his face as he gathered his balance, stumbling a few times. Shaking and sobbing, Dean reached down between his thighs, and touched there. He winced, hiccuping wetly as he felt the dripping, hot mess below, Sam’s fluid running down his inner thigh. Everything hurt. It burned, and all from his testes back felt wet and… looser, than it should. He had no idea that Sam, or anyone else would use him in that way. He’d heard of anal sex, but little did he know the reality. He pulled his hand back, then recoiled when he saw the substance on his fingers; a thin, viscid white that traveled down his palm in strands, mixed with the coppery scarlet of blood.  
  
He felt bile creeping up his throat, as he sat on the bed... Where Sam had opened him. Where he’d taken pleasure in Dean’s pain, and where he’d bled. Dean could see the drying fluids of blood and come. He braced himself against the mattress, and suddenly he was gone in a wave of agony and tears.  
  
He was filled with the sticky, cooling release of Sam’s orgasm, and it ran down his thighs alongside the trails of blood staining the milky-white flesh. His hair was mussed, body sweating and naked, painful bruises and scrapes adorning his hip bones. A flushed, purple and red bite mark was making itself apparent on his shoulder, blood slowly tracking from the cuts of Sam's teeth. He was damaged and soiled, his consent not given, but taken. Ripped away from him like fruit from a tree. The man’s body was shaking with a tremor he’d never felt before, heart kicking violently as he clumsily, painfully stumbled downwards, to rest his aching, bleeding body.  
  
He didn’t care that he’d have no evidence of what happened; it was just too much for him to see and smell, too much for him to touch and think about as he slept. Beside the bed, on the floor, he curled up and tried to stay quiet, stay sound.  
  
  
Later-- Dean couldn’t remember how long afterward, but it was later. He felt the ache in his backside, and in his hips as he moved, his heart thundering through the anxiousness and pain. His hand found the metal cuffs around his ankles, waves of tearing hurt ripping upward from his bruises and cuts, the vicious bite mark on his neck. Dean’s body shuddered as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, when he saw Sam’s tall, strong figure looming before the single light.  
  
“Hey, Dean…” it murmured, “You okay?”  
  
Dean sucked in a breath, not speaking.  
  
“Are you bleeding?” Still, Dean would give no answer. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of one.  
  
Then, Sam grabbed him by his sides and shoved him downwards, slamming him onto the mattress with vigor and incredible force. Dean didn’t know why he was suddenly falling to pieces, but he was begging for him to not touch him, and tears were slipping from terror-blown eyes, as Sam pinned his top half to the mattress, leaving him to struggle against Sam’s own upper body, but that was frankly unbeatable. A sharp stab of pain to the face, when Sam slammed his head down on the floor, and he felt something instantly bruise. Sam’s large hand grabbed his face, two fingers before his mouth.  
  
“C’mon. You know what to do.” he said, voice low and yet commanding.  
  
Dean writhed in his grip, twisting his head away from Sam. He wouldn’t. He didn’t expect Dean to get himself ready for his own rape? Again, Sam’s anger got the best of him and he heaved Dean up the mattress, throwing patience to the wind and taking it into his own hands. He went to scream, but Sam clamped a hand over his mouth, and simply brought the fingers to his own.  
  
Dean clawed at Sam’s arms, raking deep, vicious-red nail trails over the skin, trying to pry his vice-like grip off his face and body. He kicked and squirmed, but would always end up in the same, humiliating position. Dean could see himself, naked in the dark and once again drained of blood. He could see Sam sucking on his own fingers as Dean wriggled futilely in his arms, then they were being lowered to the spot between his thighs.  
  
“Look at me.” he demanded, and Dean complied this time. “You try to get away, and I _will_ hurt you.”

One finger was pushed between his soft cheeks, sliding right into his sore, bruised hole. It hurt, but not as much as it would have, if Sam had chosen to use something bigger. He could feel himself getting lightheaded, being in such a choking position. His heart throbbed hard, Sam groaning softly near his ear, before teething on it lightly.  
  
His sigh sent internal quivers of disgust through his body. “You’re still so loose… all slick inside.”  
  
Sam eased in his second finger alongside the other, Dean’s mind racing to find an exit or some way of fighting back before he truly did lose consciousness. In a blink, Sam pushed in a third, burning and scraping into his sheath, stretching it more in the past day than he’d ever been stretched. Sam started fingerfucking his hole with long, steady fingers.  
  
Dean remembered that this was before Sam had castrated him. It must have been, because of what he did next. His thumb traced lightly, almost lovingly over his soft pair, rubbing his balls gently. Dean’s heart damn near froze, when Sam hit that spot again. That little, deceiving spot that felt so painful and yet somehow…  
  
“You getting hot? Your pussy wet for me, Dean?” he whispered, Dean trying to not see him as he pumped his fingers inside.  
  
His whimpers went unheard, his muffled pleas a thing of the past as Sam kept fingerfucking his hole in the dim cellar light. His legs twisted and kicked uselessly on the mattress, nothing for him to brace himself against, except for Sam’s sturdy, hard frame. Dean huffed quietly as Sam scissored right over his prostate, that spot that betrayed him and made his body betray him. He could claw and scream all he liked; there wasn’t another soul inside this cellar.  
  
Dean felt something tightening at the base of his spine, the rough, raw motions of Sam’s fingers padding and prodding in terrible places. His stomach coiled and uncoiled, threatening to make him throw up, even as a hot hardness was building in his pelvis. He’d never felt something like this, and for a moment, he felt as though Sam was hurting him so badly it was taking a toll on the inside of his body.  
  
His heart pounded and his mind protested, his body squirming hard in Sam’s undying grip, his breaths becoming shorter and terrified as he was forced to be touched. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the post where his chains bound, the metal loops rattling as he struggled.  
  
Just then, Sam grabbed his chin and tilted his head to look at him. “Look at me when you come.”  
  
_“Sam, please don’t…”_ he murmured, his voice smashed against Sam’s palm. He didn’t understand.

Sam grunted softly, rubbing in small, gentle circles around Dean’s prostate, the man’s toes curling against the mattress. His heart was thundering and striking violently against his breast, Sam’s fingers teasing that one spot almost perfectly.  
  
He remembered that Sam had kept fingerfucking his hole, rubbing his prostate, teasing Dean to completion. He didn’t stop until Dean writhed in his grip, gasping and shivering and clenching down hard on Sam’s fingers, eyes scrunching shut as he poured himself onto the mattress. His thick, sticky white come was spurting from his cock, even though the orgasm was weak. Days worth of Dean’s come spilled into a puddle, Sam smiling at Dean’s terrified, wet eyes.  
  
“See…?” Sam purred, voice low and intimate. “That wasn’t so bad.”  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean woke in a cold sweat, clinging to the bedsheets and with tears streaming down his cheeks. For several minutes, he had to lay there and try to muster his wits. His mind and body were thrumming, sweat beading on pale flesh and dripping from his brow. He threw his head back against the pillow, hair sweaty and mussed, body damp, pants… _wetter,_ than they should have been.  
  
Dean peeled back the covers, only to find his sleeping pants soaked, just drenched from the inside out. He realised he’d wet himself, a bit too late. He licked at his chapped lips, mouth suddenly dry and nerves on-edge. Recollection was a terrible idea.


	4. Chapter 4

For what seemed like years at a time, the week wore on. Through the days, then to another. What was September abruptly became October. Every day, Dean would wake up scared and confused, shocked at where he was, no different. Cold sweats, nightmares, feelings of conflict and paranoia. He’d eased down from shivering, clutching-at-the-sheets nightmares, and transitioned into sleeping while hugging the pillow rather tightly.   
  
He squinted in the daylight, as he’d done many times before, by now. The big, beautiful trees and flowers swayed in the breeze, the sun shining brightly and glinting playfully off of glass windowpanes, morning dew, and those telephone poles lining the street. Castiel was standing beside him as he looked outside.  
  
“Come on, it’s fine.” he promised him, but it assuaged little.  
  
Dean took a few cautious steps out onto the porch, looking up at the sky, even though it burned. He watched the clouds drifting by lazily, sunlight flowing in tireless beams down upon the world. Still unsettled and estranged, albeit less than before, Dean traipsed down the sidewalk carefully.  
  
“Alright. Ready?” Cas asked, with a small smile.  
  
His new master was so easy and loving to him… Dean nodded and followed, nearly giving a smile himself. He followed beside Cas, the man gently touching his arm, little to his notice. The chilly air was pleasant on his skin, his peridot green eyes tirelessly raking their gaze over the flowers and leaves, the grass, sidewalk, everything. Their stroll was rather languid, as Dean was staring aimlessly at virtually everything, but Cas was willing to wait for him. He was so kind, so sweet-tempered that Dean couldn’t believe this was his savior.  
  
As they walked through the neighborhood, children played in their yards, people drove by in cars, birds and bugs flew overhead occasionally. Dean had only just realised Cas’s fingers were lightly clasping his hand.  
  
“You doing alright?” Cas asked, ever so careful.  
  
“Yeah. ‘m okay.” he said. Dean really meant it. He hadn’t felt so strange and... unleashed, as he did now. If it weren’t for the utter shock that refused to die away, he would’ve cried.  
  
The two of them eventually circled back to Cas’s house, taking the same exact route, retracing their footsteps like they did the last time. Dean was feeling himself loosening, becoming easier to handle and take care of, for himself. He was a quick learner, and persistent. The duo went back home again, Dean saying that he would like to take a bath upstairs when they did. Castiel nodded, and watched him as he shyly moved up the stairs, towards the bathroom.  
  
Dean’s mind was hammering inside his brain, and he barely acknowledged the water spraying into the tub. It steamed up the mirror, the window, and rose from the filling tub as if from a hot cup of coffee. Dean didn’t know what was different, now… He had gone on a walk with Cas, but using hardly any help from him. Heretofore, that hadn’t happened at all, nor had it shown any sign of developing. Dean twisted the knobs till the water stopped flowing, and stripped down. Castiel was so… Easy to be around. He was softspoken and gentle, in every sense of the term, a true angel amongst men.  
  
He slid delicately into the water, just as every other time, and reached for the soap.  
  
Something so strange shouldn’t be able to happen so abruptly, so he thought, as Dean was soaping up his arms. He’d come to enjoy the process of cleaning, to such extent that he would smile, sometimes. His care for walks with his master, was turning into something to be cherished and learned, a thing he thought he’d never experience again before he died. Dean’s heart sank through to his stomach, at thinking about that. It wasn’t even three weeks ago --though perhaps it may have seemed like so much longer-- that he had been ripped from his cellar and thrust into the life of suburbia. His hand had frozen unknowingly on his shoulder, as he counted each fucking blessing again.  
  
“Dean?” came a soft voice behind the bathroom door.  
  
“I’m in here.” he replied.  
  
“I just wanted to let you know, dinner’s cooling on the counter.” Cas said, sounding sweet in his intent, but Dean suddenly didn’t fancy wanting to eat.  
  
He looked down at his torso, still so thin, especially where the ribs were. He didn’t want to get bigger; to eat, or get fatter. Dean liked himself exactly where he was… But on the other hand, it was that, or please his master. The decision was made in a second.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Yeah. Thank you, sir.” he murmured, “Uhm, sir-- Cas? Would you… come in? Please.”  
  
Cas obeyed his wish and came into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Dean’s blush crept down his face, throat, his chest, the skin pinkening with slight embarrassment. He inhaled deeply, exhaling through his nose quietly. He struggled to find the right words, trying to pick through them until it wasn’t so inappropriate.  
  
“Cas, would you help me?” he asked, rather self-effacing about it. “With my back, again.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
And so Castiel knelt down beside him, like the first night, and took the cup from the side of the tub. He filled it with water and poured it down Dean’s back, the warmth and pleasure of it so much better when his master was the one doing it. His friend. Dean tried to refrain from writhing under the hot water in contentment. Cas tenderly rubbed the sponge over his back in small, soft circular motions, washing out the soap and then some.  
  
His hands were large and soft against his back, his aches and pains just dripping away at the touch of those skilled, dexterous hands. Cas wrung out the sponge, then dipped it back into the water to gently sweep across Dean’s healing shoulders. It would take time, of course, for some wounds and bruises to heal; certain ones never would. But he was doing better, he wasn’t flinching so noticeably at Cas’s touch. It was sweet and unusual, how Cas didn’t wash his back as a handler, or a master-- But he helped him, as a friend.  
  
“Here, lie back.” Cas offered, tilting Dean’s head back. “I thought I’d do your hair, too.”  
  
Dean nodded, closing his eyes and then feeling the soft pouring of water over his scalp. Cas’s long fingers running through his hair, then more water, and Castiel finger-combing his hair again. The blush in his cheeks couldn’t become redder, but his master-- His friend, was clearly not choosing to mention it. Dean was used to being unclothed in front of people, after nearly three years of imprisonment… But with his friend, it was different somehow; things had changed. Cas was warmhearted and careful in his touch, allowing Dean room to breathe comfortably.  
  
His friend was caring enough to realise that he was scared; of people, and relationships, of even being touched sometimes. And it would take healing and a good soul like him, to help. Dean knew that he took things for granted, but this would never be one of those things. Cas’s fingers ran through his hair almost lovingly, careful with him as he poured more water over his scalp.  
  
“Alright… I think that’s good.” said Cas, tracing over Dean’s wet ear for just a second.  
  
Dean returned a small smile out of courtesy, and allowed himself to be helped from the bathtub.  
  
That night, Dean was lying nestled in the bedsheets, flesh all alight in goosebumps as he stared out into the dark nothingness. The corner of a room hadn’t been more intimidating. The clock ticked 1:22am. With the intake of a shuddering breath, he reluctantly swung his legs over the side of his bed, and made for the door. Only after he was out, did he realise he was still holding his pillow, clutching it to his chest. The soft padding of his feet over the wooden floor could be heard, if Castiel was awake.  
  
Dean breathed silently, eyes searching for any sign of a shadow moving along under the door, or perhaps another warning that Cas was still awake. He winced as he pushed open the door, hearing it creak slightly on its hinges. The dim moonlight from the hall flooded into Cas’s bedroom, nearly meeting with the beam from the window. Dean tried his best to be silent, feet quieted by the carpet floor.  
  
He put his pillow down on the floor beside Castiel’s bed, and sat next to it; His eyes were immediately drawn to the man’s shirtless torso, rising and falling with each easy breath. The pale skin moved beautifully over his muscle, dark hair mussed from sleeping. He watched him for a while… dreamy and sincere. A while, that flowed into a long time. Dean yawned softly, eyes tiring in the dark as he watched his friend sleeping sound, unaware that he was there. He observed with interest, the way that Castiel’s face was at peace, the way his chest languidly rose and fell, nonchalantly entrancing.  
  
It wasn’t until his head was involuntarily dropping forward, that Dean laid down on the pillow, and was able to sleep. On the floor, the carpet in Cas’s room, it was the easiest rest he’d come by.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean had been able to sleep soundly and peacefully, for the first time in a long time. He rested easily, sleeping the sleep of the just and the quiet. The sleep of the innocent. When he woke to the loud singing of birds and sunlight on a bright, October morning, he didn’t expect the sudden elevation that he felt. Nor, did he expect to be met with a pair of pretty blue eyes, staring engagingly at him. Dean’s heart almost flinched in his chest, when he acknowledged where he was.  
  
“Cas-- I’m sorry…” he mumbled, suddenly getting flustered in and of the situation.  
  
“No, it’s alright.” Castiel almost chuckled, and… Dean had never noticed what a kind smile he really did have. “You didn’t look very comfortable on the floor, so…”  
  
“I was just… Scared, I guess.” he had to admit, trying his best to keep eye contact to a minimum. He noticed that Cas had, thankfully, at least put on a t-shirt. Dean scratched at an imaginary itch near his nose, staring woebegone at the rumpled bedsheets.  
  
“Dean…” he began, but it seemed that words wouldn’t suffice. Cas reached out, daring enough to cup Dean’s hollow cheek and thumb across the blushing skin. He shook his head, brow knitted in contemplation. “You have no reason to be.”  
  
In a moment, Cas was before him, and the next moment… His soft, loving lips were upon Dean’s forehead. They kissed so light and tender, he might have mistaken them for the touch of an angel. His eyes fluttered closed, just taking in the sudden caress of the mouth upon his brow. He was tenderhearted, in the most innocent sense of the term. Dean felt his heart almost sing, as Castiel’s lips just barely brushed his skin. Far too soon, they were gone.  
  
Castiel drew away, eyes weighed down by something Dean couldn’t see. Out of sheer force of habit, Cas forced a smile, more for Dean’s benefit than anything else, and rubbed his shoulder. He could see the wariness in Cas’s eyes, however; the utter disbelief behind those crystalline blues, and that it had almost made him break character. Dean would have said something, would have taken note of it, had he not just been kissed in the most sweet, warm way he’d ever felt.  
  
“Come.” Cas said quickly, “Or, if you’d rather, you can sleep.”  
  
Dean shook his head. He’d rather have everything to do with walking around outside, today.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The walk went even better than usual. He was learning his way up and down the street, becoming more comfortable with his surroundings. At least more so than the first day. His heart was oddly lightened, as he tried to focus more on what was happening now, than before. He was able to walk with Castiel, not only beside him; Something was different than before, and maybe that was for the best.  
  
Dean watched Castiel sway a bit beside him, fingers ever so lightly clasping his own, as they walked down the way. People were in their usual places, neighbors in their houses or on their lawns, doing things. Everyday things, that Dean hadn’t seen in a long time.  
  
“Cas…?” he murmured.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are you happy, here?” Dean asked softly.  
  
“Oh, yeah. It’s really nice, once you come to know it.” Cas assured him, smiling at the sunny, autumnal surroundings. Orange and brown leaves blew from trees, fragile and crunchy as they were trod upon. “I promise. There’s Tessa, who lives up the street. My friends Billie and Amara are up the other way.”  
  
Dean nodded his understanding, as the sidewalk crept on. It seemed to be neverending, some days. The endless strip of grey concrete, where he and Cas would walk and help him stretch his legs, help him get a firm grip on what was around him. He preferred it that way, to know what places were where, and who occupied them. Cas went on to tell him about Jody and Donna a few streets over, the nice sheriffs of the town. Dean liked the way Castiel was warm and spoke friendly of his acquaintances.  
  
“Do you have any family?” Dean asked, finally.  
  
“Yeah. They don’t really live around here, though.” he noted, “Five brothers, four sisters.”  
  
Dean’s eyebrows were traveling further and further up his forehead, as he heard Cas go on. “Can you remember their names?” he jested.  
  
“My brothers, Gabriel, Michael, Luke, Raphael, and Gadreel. My sisters, Anna, Hester, Hannah, and Rachel.” Castiel said, smiling warmly at the thought of them.  
  
Dean couldn’t imagine having that many siblings. He’d barely survived the tortures of one little brother, let alone nine others. His own brother had torn him apart and put him back together into something new, countless times, like some mockery of a patchwork quilt. Ripping out little pieces of what Dean was, then stitching them together differently, so they didn’t properly work. The only difference between him and such a quilt, was that one would probably still be useful, in the end.  
  
He hated to think of what could happen to such a beautiful person, like Castiel. He didn’t want to imagine what his nine siblings could do to a faithful, loving, caring person like him, should they so choose. Still, the two of them continued their walk, a certain aura of chaste admiration dawning upon Dean, as he observed his friend. He liked to think that perhaps Cas was woven of something different than he; his patches were sweet and soft, where Dean’s were rugged and frayed. He was kind, forgiving, and so very contrasting from what Dean had known.  
  
One thing was for certain; Dean was in pieces, and Castiel had the patience of a Saint, to glue him back together. One embrace, one kind word, one gentle praise at a time.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean’s comfort with his surrounding had grown significantly over the next few days. He was sitting with Cas when the man would watch television, his friend often inviting him to stay and just… be. Even more heartwarming to him, Cas was alright with him coming up to him whenever he needed. When Dean approached Castiel in the living room this morning, he didn’t expect what he saw. Cas was pacing around, phone clamped tight to his ear as he nodded along to what the caller was saying. Dean stayed a few feet from the door, just watching him slowly walk in circles about the empty space in the room.  
  
“Uh-huh.” he murmured quietly, “Is there any chance… Maybe Balthazar? Yes.”  
  
Cas spotted Dean near the stairs, and gave him a soft smile before returning to his call. He stood there, watching Castiel continue his intent conversation for a good few minutes more. Whatever they were talking about, it was getting under Cas’s skin. The man’s responses were getting shorter and more irritated, until he finally sighed in agreement, and put an end to the call. Dean almost fliched, seeing Cas throw his phone onto the coffee table, but the warmth that suddenly filled his friend right before his eyes, erased any thought of that.  
  
“Hey, you’re up.” he said, tone audibly softened and gentle as he approached him. “Did you sleep better?... You were pretty calm all night.”  
  
“With you, I’m much better.” he mumbled, trying to breathe over parts he didn’t want Cas to hear. Still, the man patted his shoulder, and Dean’s mind glanced back to when Cas had kissed him. Just a light brush of the lips across his brow, but it had changed him, somehow.  
  
“What’s that?” Cas chuckled, and Dean almost forgot that he was holding a book in his hand.  
  
“Oh, uhm… Nothing.” Dean said sheepishly, “I just…”  
  
“You want me to read to you?” he asked. One long, humiliating moment dragged by, and Dean nodded. “Okay.”  
  
Dean was led to the couch, Cas taking the book and settling down right beside him. He’d found the book to seem interesting enough from the outside, and had the means to read it himself, surely. But having someone read it to him was always something that helped. Cas thumbed over the cover that read “To Kill a Mockingbird.” The man hummed softly, letting Dean press slightly into his personal space, before he cracked open the book and turned to the first page. Dean watched his face, before he began reading.  
  
“When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.” Castiel read from the book. “When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury.”  
  
Dean allowed his temple to rest on Cas’s shoulder, his eyes traveling over the paper at the rate that the words were spoken. He felt a warm rush of affection as Cas kept reading, for some reason. Maybe it was his curiosity or his odd fixation with his new friend, but whatever the reasoning, Dean was only eager to hear him speak more, to hear that voice read to him again.  
  
“His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh.” Castiel continued, as Dean stayed flush to his side. It didn’t seem to bother the man when he would get closer, or when he would watch Cas’s mouth move as he spot the words. “He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass or punt.”  
  
Dean listened intently, not at the book, but at Castiel’s voice. His tone and his words spoken so kindly, as if he were truly pleased to read for Dean, and it was a highlight of his morning. Dean’s heart almost ached at seeing the expression of contentment on Cas’s face. He’d seen that look before… though hardly under the same circumstances. His mind flashed backward to a darker place, a time when he’d seen that expression from the murky cellar floor, pain shooting through his body. He’d seen that expression on Sammy’s face, when he was hurting him. Sam had sat there for a long time after he’d had his fill, talking to Dean, like Cas was talking to him, now.  
  
He would tell him stories, of the other people he’d hurt. Of so many different ones, like a book just waiting to be read. As Castiel continued on, his voice was the whisper in the back of his mind, as he thought of Sam. His baby brother had hurt so many people, because of his problems; Problems that Dean had long-since failed to spot, to get him help for. Sammy would tell him stories; soft, quiet little stories of how he’d killed and raped people. As if Dean ever wanted to hear it.  
  
Sam would talk about this one girl, Madison, quite often. Talk about how she was so beautiful, so much more beautiful than Dean, and how she always did what she was told. His stories were long, drawling things, that stuck to the back of Dean’s brain like a stubborn gnat. He thought about Sam too much.  
  
Cas gently draped his arm around Dean, bringing him in closer, deeper into an embrace. It felt warm and secure, but jolted him out of his dark reverie. He felt Cas’s strong grip hold him softly, scaring away the fine tremor in Dean’s body, keeping his petrifying thoughts at bay, for now.  
  
“It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon's homestead, Finch's Landing, and make their living from cotton.” Cas read still, his voice an octave or so quieter. “The place was self-sufficient: modest in comparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everything required to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile.”  
  
Dean felt a deep purr in his chest, as he let Cas will away his fright.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
In the backyard, that day, Dean had taken to sitting by the garden. The wind was cool and the skies were clear, birds soared above, and bugs crawled below. He felt the blades of grass brushing his hands, as he moved to touch the barren flower bed. The dirt was unsown, stiff and aged as it sat there fruitlessly inside the lines of small bricks. He watched Castiel walking around his backyard, watching the bees and butterflies flitting past.  
  
  
Was this what Dean was supposed to do with his life, now? He was supposed to just move through each day, and pretend everything was normal, when it was not? He wouldn’t be normal, Sam had said it himself. He wouldn’t fit, and he would be nothing more than someone to be taken care of. If he ever met someone to take care of him. And, in all honesty, he had barely caught a word of Cas reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Once Sam had invaded his thoughts, that was it; even from afar, Sam’s abuse was causing him grief. True to his word, Dean would never be free of him.  
  
He saw Sammy’s eyes in the the reflection every time he looked in the mirror. He saw his hands and his body, his hair, his skin. They were flesh-and-blood brothers, and Dean could never change the connection he had with him.  
  
“Do you like flowers?” Dean asked softly.  
  
Cas turned and raised his eyebrows. “I suppose.” he chuckled, “Why?”  
  
Dean shrugged. It was easier than explaining. A small shrug was simpler to understand, than what was going on inside his head, right now. He swallowed dryly and stroked the dried dirt again, fingertips touching the unused soil. Cas could have done so much with it; the dirt was practically a blank canvas, just ripe for the picking. But he’d chosen to leave it bare. He didn’t understand some of what went through his friend’s mind, either. That odd, sweet mind was something he might never comprehend, but it was interesting to try.  
  
“Who was that, on the phone?” Dean asked.  
  
“The agent I was talking about.” he murmured, visibly tensing. “Dean, I… He wants me to go to a meeting, later tonight.”  
  
Dean’s heart dropped through his stomach. “What?” he blurted out, “A meeting?”  
  
“Yes.” Cas sighed.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because there are more hostages, and we’re trying to strategise, now, who should pick up the next one.” Castiel answered rather sharply, as he walked through the grass. “I can’t go pick up all of them, and neither can anyone else who’s already been there.”  
  
“Why? Why can’t the police just…” he tried, grappling for some understanding of why Cas had to leave. “Why can’t they just storm in, take the people out?”  
  
“You don’t get it, Dean.” Castiel breathed, head down as he thought of the very idea. “That… So many of the people we’re trying to save, would die.”  
  
“But, Cas--”  
  
_“Dean…”_  
  
“Cas, please--”  
  
_“Dean!”_ he snapped, voice low and eyes sharp. “That’s enough. We’re not doing that, and I need to go, later.”  
  
Dean practically shivered out of his skin, when he heard Cas snap that way. His heart seemed to stop, tears prickling at his eyes as Castiel rubbed his brow and walked back inside. His whole body was shaking, hands frozen on the ground as he hiccuped once, twice, then he was gone. His voice shattered into a string of hard, wet sobs, lungs constricting in his chest, heart kicking violently in protest. He shouldn’t have broken the silence. He should have just left Cas’s stress alone, and kept playing with the grass, but…  
  
Tears dripped down his cheeks, wiped away by trembling fingers, shoulders spasming with each wracking sob. Cas wouldn’t be under all this pressure to do well, if Dean hadn’t been saved. He’d have just needed to save another one, maybe someone better. Maybe that girl, Madison, would have been the one he’d save, instead of this sorry excuse. He wiped at his eyes with his shirt, feeling another chilly breeze send goosebumps over his skin.  
  
Even as he pulled himself to his feet and turned to face the house, he had to take several breaths, get ahold of himself, just like any other day. This wasn’t the way Cas had acted before, and it was the selfish part of him that wanted the soft, sweet Cas to stay soft and sweet. It wasn’t until this meeting had been dredged up, he decided as he walked up the steps, that Cas had been on-edge. He just traipsed back inside and quietly went to the living room.  
  
He rubbed his chilly arms uncertainly, before he spotted the damned book on the coffee table. A post-it note marked where they’d left off. He picked it up, and tucked it behind the couch cushions, should Cas not want to look at it. He knew that sometimes Sam didn’t want to see the things that made him angry, that it only made him angrier to see them, that it made him want to hurt them. So he pushed the book behind a grey cushion until it was sandwiched between it and the back of the couch. The last thing he wanted was for Cas to be angry.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
“Dean?” Cas called, nearly an hour later.  
  
It was the middle of the afternoon, now, and he hadn’t seen a blink of Dean since he’d snapped at him. He regretted it; every moment that he’d made Dean hurt, he regretted it with pure, unadulterated guilt. Dean didn’t need to feel that, anymore. He didn’t need to feel the pain and verbal abuse that Sam had racked up over the years, especially from the man who claimed to have saved him. Cas was downstairs, now, looking all through the first level of the house, as he couldn’t seem to find him upstairs.  
  
“Dean?” he repeated, trying to call louder, this time.  
  
Still, no sign of him, and the place was entirely empty. Save for Cas’s voice, it was silent and barren. Fear suddenly stroke through his mind, as he ran to the front door and pulled it open wide.  
  
_“Dean!”_ he called.  
  
His mind was racing, Dean gone without a trace, and nowhere to be seen in the house, or the backyard. Castiel’s heart sank through to the floor, knowing this was his fault. He ran out the door and heard it snap shut behind him, but he was already down the sidewalk. Dean’s name echoed through the cold, empty streets, crumpled autumn leaves swimming across the asphalt in waves. People don’t just vanish into thin air. He called Dean’s name through the street, then the next, as he rounded the corner. Hardly anyone was out, most people either at home or at work, and it was getting colder with each passing minute.  
  
He just hoped to God that Dean was alright.  
  
  
Roses and violets were nice, but as much as he wished, Dean couldn’t find any sunflowers. It just wasn’t their time of year, and soon, there would be none at all. Dean quietly broke off a rose from its bush, carefully adding it to the handful of flowers he’d plucked from various beds. The cold air chilled him to the bone, made him wish he could just apologise in some way, but there was more to be said than “I’m sorry.”  
  
He hummed to himself, trying to keep his eyes open for anyone walking the streets, as he pulled up a few dandelions from the dirt, and added them to his bundle. It wasn’t easy to come out here. In fact, it was terrifying. He hadn’t been outside like this in three years, much less been able to tell his way around. Cas had told him, four houses from his, Jody and Donna lived there. A few houses further, and he’d find the next street, where Cain lived. It was impossible for him to stop shaking, but with fumbling fingers he managed to pick a few more flowers from their gardens.  
  
He heard footsteps scraping over gravel, echoes of “Dean!” traveling to meet his ears. He jolted and quickly shoved the flowers into his jacket, stumbling to his feet and making a run for it. He didn’t want any trouble, just to find some flowers.  
  
Heart pounding and body freezing, he started racing back to Cas’s house as fast as he could. He swore at himself for trying to leave the house, cursing every second he wasn’t there. His body shuddered to a stop, when he saw that he’d missed a street. Somewhere. He froze, staggering backward and nearly tripping up, as he looked around for some sign of a street name. All he saw were trees and two-lane asphalt, silent houses lining the streets. He heard another call of his name, but it was all mingling with the howling wind and his shallow breaths. None of this was making sense.  
  
“Dean!” came a voice, “Dean, stop, please!”  
  
Dean stumbled backward and someone grabbed him; He screamed, wrestling in their grip, pulling away and turning to fight them, when he realised who was holding him. He was met with a pair of striking blue eyes, before he saw Castiel’s face, pale and flushed by the cold.  
  
“Dean…” Cas cupped his face and rubbed his cheeks, bringing him closer and letting him fall into his arms. “Shh, shh… It’s okay. I’m so sorry, Dean-- It’s okay…”  
  
Dean felt him rubbing in soothing circles between his shoulderblades, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Cas could feel his heart leaping in his chest, over and over. He was shivering from the cold, trembling hard and cringing as Cas touched him. Dean didn’t understand, how Cas could be the one apologising, when he was the one who’d wronged him. Nevertheless, Castiel held him close and rubbed his cheeks until Dean’s face was warming up, then slowly showed him how to get back home.  
  
It didn’t matter if Dean was crying the whole way; what mattered, was that Castiel wouldn’t be upset with him anymore.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
That evening, Dean laid in bed with Castiel for a while, trying to warm himself up. He’d been held close and snuggled for nearly half an hour, before the effects of it really began to take hold. Cas had wrapped them in blankets, made Dean cuddle into every nook and cranny to make him warm again. His friend had called him insane, for going outside in such weather in only jeans and a jacket. True, the weather had taken a turn for the worse rather quickly, but it was no excuse for Dean to not make his wrongs right.  
  
Castiel had been in such a hurry to get him out of his cold clothes and into something warmer, that he hadn’t noticed the flowers in his jacket, and Dean thanked God for that. He felt a couple of hot tears drip into his hair, as Cas nuzzled along his brow.  
  
“Dean, you scared me…” he whispered, looking ashamed of the way his voice broke when he said those words. His pretty pink lips were bitten, to keep himself from sobbing into Dean’s hair. “I’m so sorry, Dean… _Please,_ just never… Never do that again.”  
  
“I promise.” he murmured into Cas’s shirt.  
  
“Why were you running from me? Because I yelled at you?” he asked, voice like sandpaper.  
  
Dean said nothing. He couldn’t explain it to him, not now, not after he’d just ruined fucking everything… He clutched at the blankets, let Cas squeeze his shoulder, before he wriggled around beneath the quilts and reached for his jacket. A hot blush in his cheeks, Dean pulled out what was formerly a pretty bunch of flowers. As a couple of hours had worn by, they’d wilted slightly and turned softer than they were before, no longer standing up very well. A good fit with anything else Dean could offer him.  
  
“Dean…”  
  
He moved back up into Cas’s arms, letting him resume his embrace, as he choked softly and handed him the flowers. Instead of seeing his reaction to them, Dean burrowed into his shoulder and waited for him to speak. Cas held them tenderly in his skilled, strong hands that could hurt, silent for a moment as Dean shivered with anticipation. He felt Castiel breathe suddenly and tighten his embrace around him, kissing every inch of his face that he could reach.  
  
Tiny, sweet kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. Cas rubbed his cheek over Dean’s, nosing along the curve of his jaw. His free hand gently caressed his shoulders, while the other still held his flowers. Dean was so taken, an abrupt explosion of love right before his eyes.  
  
“Dean… You’re the sweetest, most beautiful person I’ve ever met-- I can say that with truth.” he promised, voice raw with emotion and eyes dripping tears freely, now. He kissed Dean’s cheek again. Dean saw how his eyes went wide when he cried, hand stroking Dean’s hair almost lovingly. “You never… You always see the good in people. Even when it’s not there.”  
  
Dean, for the first time, kissed him back. His lips met Castiel’s flushed, wet cheek, and he kissed just like Cas had. Soft, sweet, caring. He couldn’t kiss him any other way; couldn’t imagine to.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean watched with tired eyes as Castiel began changing his clothes for the meeting. He cleaned up well; Cas’s hair, formerly messy and sticking up in many directions, was combed down and neat. His suit and tie were both tidy, even if the tie was a little crooked. He didn’t know what kind of meeting that he would be going to. Would they have the kind of power to tell Castiel to send Dean away? If they were to decide not only the fate of the other hostages, but Dean’s fate, as well? Dean was little more than a hostage, still. He had freedoms, more than he’d had in a long time, but he wasn’t allowed to leave, for “safety reasons.”  
  
Sam had sold him, Castiel had bought him. That was the end of it. Dean had been loaned and bartered occasionally, but rarely did Sam mention selling him completely. Much less, did his brother actually do it. He was scared. Dean was frightened beyond comprehension, knowing that Sam had never left him to die like this. At the same time, he didn’t know what was going on; Only how to survive each day.  
  
Nonetheless, he sat on the edge of the bed, watching Castiel pull on his dark suit jacket. Dean could see the cold fog on the windows, and he could hear the frigid air howling outside. He quietly stood up and walked to the dresser, peering inside a half-open drawer. As Cas tried to groom himself decent, Dean pulled out a folded-up tan trenchcoat from inside the drawer. However angry Cas may have been with him before, Dean knew it was freezing, and he didn’t want his friend to get chilled from the crisp late-autumn cold. His fingertips ran over the soft, pliant fabric of the coat, as he walked over to his friend.  
  
Wordlessly, he held out the article of clothing, waiting for Cas to see. The man squinted at him, taking the coat from his hands.  
  
“What’s this?” he almost chuckled.  
  
“I don’t want you to get cold.” Dean murmured in reply, not really making any eye contact with him. He felt Castiel reach out and stroke his shoulder, hand sliding warmly up his neck to ruffle that gingerbread-brown hair. The man smiled softly, feeling the silky, fine hairs travel through his fingers.  
  
“You’re sweet, Dean.” he said, but with genuine meaning. Dean could hear that. He watched Castiel pull on his trenchcoat, the fabric swaying slightly with his movements. He turned to Dean, two warm hands cupping his thin face, fingers touching the whipcord-muscled neck. “Everything’s locked. The doors and windows are shut, I’ve checked them all twice. It won’t be more than a four hours, I promise you.”  
  
Cas caressed the sharp edge of his jaw, Dean’s heart purring at the touch. He gave a weak smile, before nodding, his slender hands holding Cas’s still.  
  
“No running out, right?” Cas chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood.  
  
Dean forced another small smile. “Right.”  
  
“I just don’t want you getting hurt. The neighborhood’s calm, reserved, but you can never tell.” Castiel noted, then laying a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead. “My number is on the fridge, if you need to call. I’ll be back, soon.”  
  
Dean stood there, silent, as Cas opened the front door, walked out, and left. The last time he’d seen something like that, he’d been chained up in a cellar, shaking and sobbing on a mattress. A cringe shivered down his spine, before he locked the door behind Cas. He couldn’t help but watch out the window, as Cas got into his car and drove away. His heart panged, feeling the loss immediately there.  
  
Castiel had told him that he was going to protect him, now, but did he really know what that had meant for Dean? He had been locked away for almost three years, tortured for weeks on-end before he got a moment to breathe. Just when he’d lost any hope of rescue, Castiel arrived, a knight in shining armour, to protect him from what he didn’t realise was bad. It bothered him, on a spiritual level, that he had left Sam. Even if not willingly at first. But over time, he’d gladly stayed away from him. Dean was so confused, if it weren’t for the fish-out-of-water feeling in his gut, he could’ve cried.  
  
His fingers traced clear spots in the fogged windowpane, dragging through the wet dew on the inside. For the life of him, he couldn’t tell if Castiel knew. He walked away from the window, wrapping his arms around himself, and feeling the bumps in his skin where his ribs were stacked at his sides. Dean looked at the clock. 9:31pm. He sat perched on the couch, digging behind the cushion for the book he’d hidden. “To Kill a Mockingbird” was printed across the front sleeve of the book in big letters, the post-it note still sticking out from where they’d left off.  
  
He wished that he could just have Cas stay. It was selfish, but he wanted him to stay, to never leave his side, because he wasn’t strong enough to protect himself. Dean sometimes didn’t have enough energy to get out of bed in the morning, much less fend off Sam, if he should choose to come back. Bring Dean back… He cringed harder, goosebumps erupting over his skin, as he opened the book.  
  
“Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it.” he murmured to himself, following the small text with the tip of his index finger. “In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square…”  
  
He grew squeamish and closed the book. It didn’t feel right, after having started it with Cas, to continue reading when he was gone. Part of the man had to know that Dean wouldn’t be bold enough to do much in his absence. Dean pushed the book back between the cushions, turning and looking around at all the windows.  
  
Something had moved.  
  
Dean’s heart froze in his chest, stopped entirely for a moment, shock riddling his mind. He was paralysed on the couch, sitting as if he were mere marble, a statue of himself. Something else moved, outside, his body shaking with the scared anticipation to to feel hurt. The lights flickered once, then several more times before they all shut off. The house was completely dark, moonlight the only way for Dean to make out shapes, as of now.  
  
In a single heartbeat, Dean took a chance and leapt from the couch, rushing for the front door, only to collide with something sturdy and hard when he ran out. He was grabbed up by the collar and pushed back inside, tackled onto the floor, hot breath on his face and neck as he squirmed and kicked in resistance. The man was holding him pinned to the floor, the cool hardwood pressing roughly against his back, as he thrashed and tried to punch in his attacker’s direction.  
  
“Tch, tch, tch… Dean, I thought you were past these games…” they purred, soft and intimate close to his ear. Their lips brushed with curved cartilage, and they nibbled on his earlobe.  
  
“Sam… Sam, _please!”_ he cried out, suddenly feeling Sam’s hands everywhere, touching and groping up his chest, his crotch, feeling his throat. _“Please!_ Please-- Master, I-I tried to go back to you! I tried, sir, _I promise!”_  
  
“Didn’t try hard enough.” he mewled, licking up from Dean’s ear to his temple. Dean could kick and writhe all he liked, but there was no way he was going to overpower Sam. He could feel the huge bulge of Sam’s growing arousal rubbing against his thigh.  
  
No more words were said; just screams from Dean, pleas for Cas to help him, but Dean knew he deserved this punishment. He was turned over, pinned hard against the floor, his clothes were torn from his body till they were a pile of polyester shreds. Tears escaped his eyes, running down his cheeks in streams, face flushed, heart spasming in his chest. Sam kept him on the floor by digging a knee into his back, the hard edge of a kneebone nudging against his spine, while Sam took to stripping down his pants.  
  
“Please- No, _please, Sam!”_  
  
Dean’s fingernails scratched tracks across the floorboards, as Sam pooled Dean’s jeans at his ankles. He heard the jangling of a belt, a zipper being pulled down, and then a sigh as he grabbed Dean’s ass. He felt Sam raking nail trails down his thigh, stinging hard and flushing a painful red. In the darkness, he could hear Sam’s heavy breathing, feel the sweat prickling on his skin. He then felt Sam rubbing the full, mushroomed head of his cock against his dry pucker, and he was gone in a wave of tears and crying out.  
  
“Sammy…”  
  
Sam knotted his fingers into Dean’s hair, yanked his head back as he was sobbing his name. “Hush… Ready for your punishment, Dean? You should be.”  
  
Dean screamed when he started pushing in.  
  
Sam forced his cock to break past layers of scar tissue, healing cuts, and Dean’s tight ring of muscles, stretching him so far he was bleeding all over again. Dean felt like he was being split in half, Sam spearing him onto his dick and forcing Dean’s ass to make room for his cock. He cried and kicked, screamed at the top of his lungs, but nobody heard him. He could feel the scar tissue tearing and splitting as Sam finally bottomed out inside him.  
  
Sam groaned softly, hands clamped onto Dean’s shoulders, keeping him on the floor as he took him in. Took in the feeling, no doubt, of Dean’s healing, tightened-up ass being pried open for his dick.  
  
“Scar tissue… doesn’t really respond well to stretching, does it…?” Sam managed.  
  
Sam pulled up Dean’s hips, so he could fuck the skin off his knees when he raped him. Dean scrabbled uselessly at the floor, looking like Sam’s slave, as he was contorted into a pathetic doggy-style position. Sam tore out of him almost completely, before driving his thick cock back inside to spear him on it again. Again, he did it. Harder, longer strokes were built, Sam fucking him with a vengeance. Dean cried out, pleading with Sam to stop, that he would go with him, back to the slave pen.  
  
“Sam-- Master, please!” he sobbed, feeling the skin on his knees scraping off with each thrust. “Please, I-I’ll be good! I-I I’ll go with you, a-and you can have me in fr-- in front of everyone! _Y-You can let everyone watch!_ Please, just don’t hurt my friend…”  
  
“Oh… mmngh, just…. Just like-- old times, huh, baby?” Sam grunted, chuckling darkly at Dean’s pain, at the blood on his dick as he fucked him out. “Want me to take you, right in front-- of everyone, just like when you were mine?”  
  
_“I am!”_ he damn near screamed, the burning pain in his ass consuming all thought. He just needed it to stop. “I am, yours! _I’m your_ s-- Master, I’ll always be yours!”  
  
“Yes… Yes, you will.”  
  
Sam grabbed hold of Dean’s hips, now, and started thrusting frantically, his cock driving in and out, tearing up his insides, ripping through scar tissue and blood. Blood, that was the only thing helping his fat, veiny cock slide through Dean’s passage, and in that sense, Dean hoped he bled more.  
  
Sam curled an arm around Dean’s front, as he rocked into him hard and fast, hips punching forward. His large hand found Dean’s flaccid cock, fondling it, toying with his soft appendage and rubbing at the mottled scars just below his cock. Where his testes formerly resided, their place was now just a spot for his scars.  
  
Sam chuckled again, jacking Dean’s cock just for the feeling of violation.  
  
“Mmh… oh, you’re smaller than before.” he mocked, “Gotten smaller since I un-manned you… Poor baby.”  
  
Dean threw up. He choked and coughed up the acidic remnants of what he’d eaten, the heavy fluid splattering onto the floor. He was sobbing violently, now. Sam was grinding up against his hole, balls heavy and full as he fucked Dean’s helpless form. Two thin, pale hands scraped at the floor, while a pair of beautiful green eyes wept. Sam was going faster, losing all self-control, his fucks turning jagged and needy. Sam’s balls were slapping against his ass, dick spearing him again and again, and one more time, splitting him in two.  
  
Sam bucked his hips when he came, fucking one last time into Dean’s tight, bleeding hole. His cock pulsed deep inside him, and suddenly Dean felt a hot splurge of come filling him up, spurting thick and heavy into his ass. Sam usually gasped and grunted when he came, head tilted back, eyes shut. This was no exception. Viscid strands of come filled up his slave, till he was satisfied and finished.  
  
His brother’s hands relaxed around his hips, and he enjoyed being fully sheathed inside him.  
  
“Dean. _Dean…?”_ he murmured, “Dean.”  
  
_“Dean!”_  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
“Dean. Dean, please..”  
  
Dean was being shaken and prodded at. His lower half was numb, his legs quivering, body on fire with the heat of his nightmare. Castiel was trying to shake him back into consciousness. Dean panicked, seeing he was on the floor, clothes mussed, sweat all over his body, dripping down his temples. He scrambled, panting, falling into Cas’s arms. His friend was cradling him, stroking his hair, rubbing in soothing circles on his back.  
  
“Shh… Shh, Dean, you’re okay.” he promised. “You’re safe, you’re fine, Dean...”  
  
_“Cas…”_  
  
“Dean, just breathe….” he told him, and Dean tried to steady his breathing. His heart was pounding viciously in his chest, kicking against his breastbone as if it wanted to burst forth.  
  
His panic and terror waned, as Castiel kept him close, cuddled and protected in his strong arms. He let his head fall onto Cas’s shoulder, tears slipping from his eyes, staining his trenchcoat. Dean let himself be held, and looked around the room. Nothing was broken, all the lights were on, and the front door was closed.  
  
“Cas…” he repeated.  
  
“Shh… I’ve got you, Dean.” he whispered, placing a chaste kiss to Dean’s forehead. “You’re safe, now. And I’ve got news.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Cas…”  
  
Dean was shaking harder than ever before, clinging to his friend as they sat on the floor in Castiel’s living room. The man had his arms around him, gently embracing his trembling, sobbing form as he tried to calm him down. Castiel’s efforts were admirable, but some things couldn’t be scrubbed from Dean’s memory. Like what had happened in his mind, only moments ago.  
  
“Cas… I-I can’t…” he managed, clutching at his shoulders, “I can’t stop dreaming about him. About Sam…”  
  
“He’s not here, Dean.” Cas assured him, rubbing his back. “He’s not here.”  
  
Dean felt the warmth and tenderness in each touch, every careful little touch, and if it weren’t for his panic, he might have smiled. He might have leaned into Cas’s arms and felt alright, like the first time. Dean might have felt the calm and security of when Castiel had let him sleep with him, or when he’d kissed him. But in the stead of calm, there was terror and stress drilling into his mind. He felt Castiel rubbing his cheek against the top of Dean’s head, and thought about what kind of signal that was.  
  
Dean sniveled, curling up into his friend’s embrace. Cas’s hand ran across his sore shoulders, over a nearly nonexistent layer of fat, and bones, right atop where his skin thinned over his shoulderblades.  
  
“Dean…”  
  
“Cas, what’s your news?” he asked, clearing his throat but still congested with tears. He wiped his eyes. “Y-You said you had news, right?”  
  
Castiel looked at him despairingly. It was like Dean elicited that look of pity, now. “Yes.”  
  
Dean straightened up, waiting for Castiel to speak. He didn’t need to be coddled like an infant all day, every day. He just sat up and wiped at his wet, red-rimmed eyes, before turning to Cas. He was gently, carefully touching Dean, making certain that he didn’t trigger anything; he had that look of total concentration that he’d seen before, when he would bathe him. Dean waited patiently, though, and didn’t make a sound.  
  
Castiel sighed, “There’s news… I’m not sure you’ll like to hear it, though.”  
  
“Just… tell me, please.” Dean said softly.  
  
“Sam and your other captors are unwilling to sell anyone else.” he admitted to Dean, and suddenly the truth sat hard in his stomach. “We’ve managed to get out three of his captives; you, Ruby, and Ava, but there’s undoubtedly more. He’s just not willing to trade or sell them.”  
  
“What does that mean?” Dean asked quickly, “Does that mean he knows what’s going on, that--?”  
  
“No, Dean, we don’t know. He probably has an idea, but even if he did know, I’d keep you safe.” Castiel said, holding him closer. “I would. I promise, Dean, I would.”  
  
“So… what now?” he had to ask. There was no real good solution to this.  
  
“Well…” Cas breathed, snuggling Dean in his arms. He rested his head against Dean’s, nuzzling at his hair protectively. “The team and I are going to raid the place. It seems like the best option.”  
  
_“Cas--”_

“Just hear me out.” he said, and Dean froze. “We’re going to get the victims out, a quietly as possible, and once they’re retrieved, we’ll take Sam in. Or at least the FBI will.”  
  
“N-No. No, there has to be another way.” Dean protested, trying to get Castiel’s eye contact. He tried to get those beautiful blue eyes to look at him, straight.  
  
“Dean, I’m one of the few outsiders that’s even _been_ there.” Castiel retorted, finally reciprocating eye contact. His eyes were dark and shining with an anticipation that he hadn’t seen in Castiel before. He was determined and suddenly very, very intimidating. “They need me to show them where they keep their slaves. I got a good look around, and I might be of help.”

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The FBI, was now recruiting citizens to do their dirty work? It wouldn’t be the first time, but he didn’t understand why it had to be Cas. He couldn’t comprehend how putting Castiel’s life in danger would solve anything. Putting this man’s life on the line wouldn’t help at all; it would just risk another casualty. As if enough people hadn’t died and suffered from Sam’s cruelty, already. He looked back up at Castiel, whose eyes had somewhat softened, seeming a lighter, friendlier blue.  
  
The man was understanding to Dean’s worry, his pain. His life just wasn’t important to him, it appeared. Apparently, Castiel didn’t value his own life as much as Dean did, and it infuriated him.  
  
“They want to go in, tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Dean.” Castiel murmured, but Dean wanted to push him away.  
  
He didn’t want anything to do with this mess, if it meant that Castiel would get hurt. He wanted to have been left behind in the cellar, if it meant that Castiel wouldn’t be burdened with his existence. At the same time, he didn’t want to lose this avenging angel that claimed to be just a man. He was so… so confused.  
  
Castiel thumbed over his cheek, as if expecting to find that single tear that had managed to escape. Another two tears kissed down his cheeks, and Castiel dried them, just as well. He hushed him softly, kissing his temple and keeping him safe between his body and the couch. His heart broke for Castiel, just as Cas’s did for Dean. To think, this was the man who was to be trapped in the cellar and kept for sex, and was now feeling bright emotions again. The man who had had his hope tortured out of him, was feeling hope again. He didn’t want that hope taken away. Castiel’s lips met his cheek, kissing off another tear.  
  
_“I’ll keep you safe.”_  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
They fell asleep together slowly, that night, Dean in Castiel’s arms. He stayed silent, curled up under the sheets and cradled in Cas’s warm protection. The man had hummed softly, gently rocked him into slumber, as if he were caring for a small child. Dean had fallen asleep with a heavy arm draped over him, head burrowed into Castiel’s shirt. He didn’t want to let go.  
  
He wanted to do everything in his power to keep Castiel with him, to keep him from this dangerous mission, tomorrow. But part of him knew that his hopes were in vain. Cas was right; he was one of the very few outsiders who had seen where they keep the slaves, and they certainly weren’t going to put a victim back into that mess. The captives had already been through enough.  
  
And still, Dean dreamed again for one of the first times. Not a nightmare, not terror - just a dream. Castiel was sitting beside him in the dream, and he’d kissed him full on the lips. He’d stayed with him, and they had just sat there. The dream was entirely that; the two of them, sitting on a bench in the park, just in a state of.. being. It was nice, for a long time.  
  
Until, of course, his dream had inevitably become fraught with the misfortune of circumstance, and he was woken up by sunlight yet again. This time, he was alone. He didn’t get up to look for Castiel, and he didn’t call out for him; he knew where his guardian angel was, today. His great saviour was out doing what he did best - saving people. Even if it meant leaving Dean alone to wonder if he lived or died.  
  
There was that selfish beast in Dean’s heart, again. Roaring and baring its teeth when Castiel was threatened, or rather, his possession of Castiel was threatened. It drove him to pieces, sometimes, knowing that he had so little that he needed to latch onto people, instead of an object. He felt so full when he was with Castiel, and so empty without him.  
  
Even so, Dean stayed lying in bed for hours after he’d woken up. He didn’t hear anyone in the house, nor did he hear the telltale humming of quiet songs, which meant Cas had left without telling him. He understood; Dean knew he’d only fight with the man, if he tried to go when he was awake. He supposed, now… whatever happened, happened.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Mr. Crowley stood before his group, the lot of them crouching behind the large house. It was weatherbeaten and trashed from the outside, empty beer bottles littering the back entrance, mold and ivy crawling up the sides of the place. Castiel crouched beneath a window, creeping forward with the others, as they made their way to the back door. The sun was filtering through a window inside, patched up with black construction tape and wood. Cas reached forward and ghosted his hand over the doorknob.  
  
“They’re going to scramble when we get inside.” Castiel said softly, “But this is where he keeps the new arrivals.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
Castiel swallowed hard, looking at Crowley. “Because he told me.”  
  
One of the others crept forward and started picking the lock. On the count of three, Castiel wrenched open the door and they flooded inside. He was taken aback by only one thing: Nobody was in here.  
  
There were rusted and bloodied shackles on the floor, or hanging from the walls, and small, empty food containers, but no prisoners. It reeked of bodily fluids and liquor, like Sam had been forcing them to drink. The floors were warped, moldy wood, and the walls were dark corrugated metal. This wasn’t even the truly evil place - this was the start. Castiel had to assume that Sam had moved them to the cellar, or deeper into the house.  
  
He signaled for them to keep going, and follow his lead. He’d gotten a damn good look at the house; he knew where the bedrooms were. Cas cringed hard, as they slowly crept deeper into the house. It almost seemed vacated, no presence of human life, but they had to keep looking. Castiel moved forward singly, the others fanning out and searching the kitchen, living room, and master bedroom.  
  
The whole place was a fucking wreck. It was disgusting and filthy, paint peeling from the walls and black mold on the ceiling. Hell, the kitchen floor tiles were stripping up from the floor. He didn’t know how anyone could inhabit this place without getting sick. Castiel recoiled as he opened the pantry and cockroaches scattered on the floor. Any place big enough to hide a body, right now, was good enough for him.  
  
He heard something bump.  
  
Castiel turned, hearing the tiny shift coming from one of the smaller bedrooms. He traipsed carefully down the hall, alone, and reached through the darkness for a doorknob. Unlocked. He quietly twisted it till the latch clicked open, then nudged the door to swing inside.  
  
Castiel immediately heard what sounded like human whimpers, shifting of chains. The floorboards groaned as he stepped inside, clicking on his flashlight and slowly moving the light over the room. People were huddled in corners, at least ten of them, all dirty and shackled to eachother. Cuffs were around their ankles and wrists, binding them from any escape without loud clatter.  
  
“Shh…” he hushed, when one of them went to speak. “I’m with the FBI.”  
  
_“Good.”_  
  
The last thing Cas felt was a hard clang of metal to his head.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean sat atop Castiel’s bed, lightly touching the soft fabric of the trenchcoat in his hands. He ghosted his fingers over the lightweight tan coat, touching and feeling it, gently rumpling the garment to hold it in his arms. It felt soft against his cheek. Warm. Even though Castiel had only worn it a few times, it already had his scent. A light, smoky smell, and something sweet like cinnamon.  
  
He didn’t know how long Castiel would be gone, or how many hours this mission would take, but he hoped he was back soon. In time for Dean to show him that he had made him something.  
  
Dean wasn’t sure if the man would care, or if he’d even like what he’d made, or understand it. But he really did hope that Castiel came back alright, and that perhaps… Perhaps they could keep reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Maybe Dean could read to Castiel, this time, and show that he could. It had been about three hours since he’d gotten up, which meant Castiel had been gone for even longer. Something in his chest twinged, like a creature was tugging at his heartstrings. Maybe it was that deadly beast called Love.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Castiel stirred back into consciousness slowly, after a harsh slap to the face. His vision was blurry and his mind was groggy, weighted down by the aftermath of that metal clang. The back of his head ached hard, dripping blood from the impact. What he didn’t expect was a rough kick to the ribs with a steel-toed boot. He groaned as pain erupted up his stomach like a string of firecrackers, making him grit his teeth. Squinting through his haze, he saw the long legs of a man he’d seen before.  
  
“Mmhmm… just let that sink in, there.” came a voice from above.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
Castiel tried to shift, and realised he was tightly bound in ropes.They were coiled around his wrists behind his back, around his ankles. He stirred and grunted through the pain.  
  
“Uh-huh. And…” Sam feigned a struggle to recall, “Castiel! Castiel, right? I know you, from once upon a dream... where you bought my brother.”  
  
“You were fairly reluctant to give him up.” Castiel accredited, “As I recall.”  
  
Sam made a face, raising his eyebrows. “Of course I was. Do you know exactly _how long_ it took, to get that little shit to behave?”  
  
“Why?” Castiel asked, “Why, Sam? What did Dean do to deserve that?”  
  
“He ruined my life.” Sam said, staring him full in the face, now. Something like anger mingled with resentment glinted through dark hazel eyes. “You know what he did? He share that little fortune cookie with you? He’s the reason my dad raped me as a kid.”  
  
Castiel went stock-still, silent, as Sam stayed so close that he could still feel his hot breath on his face.  
  
“See, Dean brought me along on a hunt. He said it was just a-a wolf hunt, and we could go do some shooting _together,_ with Dad.” he said, eyes burning with a glimmer of recollection. “The wolf jumps me and my brother - because we’re fresher meat, I guess, and I got all clawed up. I was holding the insides of my leg in my hands, till we got to the hospital. And then…?”  
  
Castiel swallowed hard, shifting in his ropes. “And then?”  
  
“And then my Dad thinks it’s a swell idea to get what he wants.” Sam said softly, voice trembling in Cas’s ear. “See, it was dark and my room was always locked. _That noise Dean heard…?_ That wasn’t me talking in my sleep.”  
  
Cas cringed hard, hearing Sam sniff. “It wasn’t your brother’s fault, Sam… but I guess I should’ve known.”  
  
“Known _what?”_ he snapped.  
  
“Monsters like you aren’t born, they’re _made.”_  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean watched the hours slowly tick into the afternoon. The hands of the clock dragged from 10 to 11, then from there to noon. By the time it was two-o’clock, he was fretting and on the edge of his seat, waiting to see a car pull back into the driveway. He wrung his hands as he saw cars flash by, somehow hoping that one of them would be Castiel.  
  
He strained to keep himself in check, hoping that nothing had gone wrong, and that was all he had, now. Hope and pleas. Dean barely refrained from calling him, until it was nearly three. Only then did he dare to bother him and make sure that everything had worked out. Castiel had said it would be a quick, in-and-out sort of business, with the FBI backing him. Dean carefully dialed his number, and heard the phone ring four times, before somebody picked up.  
  
_“Dean…”_ came a soft voice. It was thick and breathy, possibly Castiel’s.  
  
“Cas?”  
  
_“Yes, it’s… it’s me.”_ he managed.  
  
“Cas, are you okay?”  
  
_“Dean, I’m… I’m okay.”_ he grunted quietly, sounding like he was struggling to force each word out. “I’m okay.”  
  
“Y-You don’t sound okay, Cas, tell me--”  
  
_“Dean, call Jody Mills--!”_  
  
The call suddenly ended, leaving Dean standing blank-faced with the phone clasped to his ear.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean stood by the window, the telephone held limply in his trembling fingers as Castiel’s words repeated endlessly in his mind.  
  
His friend was in trouble. He’d gone to rescue the slaves from Sam’s wallow, and gotten trapped, somehow. Dean knew that Sam had… associates. Benny and the others had likely subdued Castiel, and gone after his team together. But so many possible reasons were rushing through his mind, when he should have been getting ready. Dean grabbed his shoes, leaving the telephone on the table and pulling them on.  
  
He wasn’t going to be a failure, again. He’d already done enough to fuck it all up, leaving his Master, and bringing the heat down onto Castiel. Cas, who’d had the shitty luck to rescue Dean, of all the slaves. Sam was never as connected with the others, as he was with his brother, and it was just another reason Dean should have been left behind, wasn’t it?  
  
Dean pulled on his jacket, and then began searching the house. He knew that Castiel had a pistol, somewhere, for keeping himself safe. A little rummaging around in Cas’s room, and he found the gun in the dresser.  
  
He clamored downstairs and out the door, unthinking, unwavering as he ran down the sidewalk. He knew exactly where the cabin was; he’d been traded and sold so many times, he had forced himself to memorize routes in and out of the place. Any meager guilt and fear for his own safety that Dean could hold, was completely overshadowed by the need to help the person who’d given him his humanity back. He’d be willing to go with his brother all over again for Castiel, trade himself one last time. Sam probably would never see this coming.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
“So… who’s your knight in shining armor?” Sam murmured quietly, watching Castiel cough and choke up blood, as he quivered on the floor.  
  
He kicked him again, hard, over and over until he heard a loud CRACK, and Cas screamed. Castiel rolled over in his bindings, trying to protect his ribs from further damage, so Sam stomped on his back. He brought the hard heel of his boot down onto Cas’s spine, stamping on the bones and waiting for one to crack. Castiel’s eyes watered and his throat was raw from yelling, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth, before he heard someone else enter the room. Sam slowed to a pause, his boot resting against the small of Cas’s back.  
  
“Benny, what?” he snapped.  
  
“The others’re getting rowdy. What should I do with them?” the man named Benny said softly, keeping his voice low.  
  
“What do you think?” Sam asked, tone like venom. “Put a bullet in each of them.”  
  
Cas shivered hard, spitting out gobs of blood to try and protest, before Sam’s boot smashed into his ribs again. He kicked again, again, and one more time, till Cas cried out sharply in pain and there was another crack.  
  
He felt his rib snap inside, splintering in his chest. Sam didn’t speak. He only kicked and punched, trying to break Castiel into the same pieces he’d broken Dean. Castiel could barely breathe through the pain, and suddenly Sam grabbed him, flipped him over, and took to swinging a prompt right hook into his face. His knuckles collided over and over with Cas’s cheekbone, his nose, his temple, bruises sprawling and purpling all over his face.  
  
Cas jolted in shock, when he heard a gunshot. Sam only glanced up.  
  
Another gunshot. And another, then one more, as Benny wiped out Castiel’s entire team. His heart was throbbing and kicking in his chest, lungs constricting in his broken ribcage as Sam grabbed him by the collar. Dark hazel eyes bored into his blue ones, squinting quizzically at him.  
  
“You think you could’ve changed him?” Sam asked, laughing dryly. “Could’ve given him back what I ripped out of his sorry ass?”  
  
Through shortness of breath, Cas whispered, “I already have.”  
  
Sam punched him again.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean’s heart raced in his chest as he managed to remember how to drive. His hands were strange and confused on the steering wheel, feet unsure on the pedals, but he recalled. Dean had driven for as long as it took, trying to remember exactly the way that Castiel had taken him, after retrieving him from Sam.  
  
He made a right turn, brain struggling to help his muscle memory. He’d only been imprisoned for three years, and he’d almost forgotten entirely how to operate a car. The sunlight was bouncing brightly off the windshield, glinting and glimmering with particles of dust.  
  
He did remember how it felt to be locked up. Dean recalled, in complete clarity, how it felt to have those cuffs wrapped around his wrists and ankles. To be chained up when his Master didn’t want him to move, to be fucked bloody-raw and bruised every day. He didn’t want that fate to befall Cas - which was exactly what would happen, should Sam make the decision he’d made with Dean.  
  
Dean had fucked up so many times in the past, Sam had threatened to put a bullet straight through his brain, when he’d confronted him. Instead, he’d second-guessed himself and made Dean relive what Sam had gone through as a child, over and over and over again.  
  
His body was thrumming so hard with adrenaline, he didn’t know which way was up. Dean just kept driving, kept speeding up, kept going as fast as he could go, to get to Sam.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
“Again!” Sam damn near screamed.  
  
Castiel was writhing on the floor, clutching at his ribs with blood in his mouth, little black dots sprayed over his vision with how little oxygen he was getting. Pulsing black shadows had begun engulfing the edges of his peripheral vision, body shaking violently with the cruel embrace of impending shock. His throat wouldn’t work, wouldn’t let him swallow or breathe.  
  
“Again…” Sam repeated, “Where’s my brother? _Tell me,_ Castiel, where are you keeping him?”

Cas choked, coughing up splatters of scarlet that fell from his swollen, bruised lips. The ropes around his wrists burned furiously, as he tried to shift inside them. Sam kicked him again, watching him cry out and tumble onto his side.  
  
“I… I’ll die, first.” he managed.  
  
Sam swallowed wetly, looking at Cas with pure disgust. “I guess you will…”  
  
Cas’s body wrenched in fiery pain as Sam turned him onto his back. His backside thumped against the wooden floor, his broken ribs making it difficult to inhale deep enough to even see his chest rise. He felt his body almost crumbling in on itself, as Sam got down on top of him. Sam’s hands fisted in Cas’s shirt, scraping down his chest and catching on his jeans, fingers raking down bruised muscle and bloodied flesh.  
  
“...but not yet.” Sam purred softly.  
  
Castiel felt a pang of fear and the horrible anticipation to feel pain, as Sam unbuckled his jeans. He squirmed, tried to fight back even as he was bound so tightly, the ropes chafing and rubbing raw-red wounds. Sam looked at Castiel’s wide crystalline blue eyes, frosted with unvarnished fright as he felt him through his boxers.  
  
“Sam, stop!” he gasped, but Sam didn’t respond.  
  
His pleas went unheard as Sam squeezed Castiel’s dick through its thin cotton confines, licking his lips with the delicious excitement and suspense that monsters like Sam felt. Sam’s hands were warm and large, gripping Castiel’s cock and just feeling it up and down, his free hand going between his thighs and groping the soft pair that Sam found there.  
  
“Sam!” was cried out once more, but Cas knew that it wouldn’t sway him in the slightest.  
  
“You know how I did my brother?” he asked, voice slick with arousal, “I fucked him from behind, so the skin would come off his knees. After I castrated him.”  
  
“You…” Cas breathed, his voice waning with each softening breath. The pain in his chest was impairing.  
  
“Before, I liked to fuck him on his back, beat him off till he came all over himself.” Sam purred, as if some intimate secret, and not a memory of raping his brother. “He always looked so confused, and he’d start crying. He couldn’t even believe - that he could ever do that. Proved him wrong, huh?”  
  
Sam grabbed a handful of Castiel’s hair, yanking his head back and squeezing his dick at the same time. Cas felt himself involuntarily start to harden, blood filling up his cock with each rub of Sam’s hand, each bit of cottony friction that it built.  
  
“You’ve fucked him, right? My little cockslut opened up for you… begged for his master?” Sam murmured, but it was all slowly becoming lost to Castiel, his heart thumping and pulsating rapidly in his chest, horror and disgust creeping through his body. “When I had him, he’d beg for my come as his only food, some days.”  
  
Castiel was trembling violently, quivering in Sam’s unwavering grip as he was groped between the thighs and forced to harden. Sam grabbed the cloth gag from the floor, and stuffed it back into Castiel’s mouth. His dick was tenting his boxers and only when Sam allowed him did Cas see the huge, denim-clad bulge of his attacker’s.  
  
Sam was hungry for much more than simple revenge; he wanted Castiel to feel what Dean had felt countless times. Cas’s heart almost stopped dead, mid-beat, when he saw Sam beginning to unbuckle his own jeans. Then he heard a soft bump from outside.  
  
Sam looked up, eyes wide and still, ears perked. He squinted at the sudden silence, closing up his pants warily. His eyes flashed between Castiel, to the bedroom door, then back again. He didn’t move, and neither did his captive.  
  
Sam leapt backwards, when the front door burst open and there was  gunshot from outside. Another gunshot, just like before, then a couple more. Sam was visibly panicking, realizing he was cornered. There were thick, wooden boards on both windows, and the door was the only way out of the bedroom.  
  
Sam drew his gun from the back of his jeans, cocking and loading it, before standing up at his full height. He aimed the gun at the door, waiting and watching the shadows move beneath it. Castiel’s head was rushing, body hazed in pain, but he tried to crane his neck to watch the door.  
  
“Benny?” Sam called. It was apparently worth the risk.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean’s heart was pulsating in his chest, kicking and pausing at irregular intervals. He saw the dead bodies before him, even though his aim wasn’t much to brag about; there were two of Sam’s hired guns, that certainly hadn’t been at the house when Dean was last here. Lying on the floor himself, there was Benny. Dean had killed his handler - something punishable by being tortured and raped to death.  
  
It wouldn’t be something Dean hadn’t seen before. He turned away from the bloody pile and headed for where he’d heard someone calling for Benny.  
  
He knew, somewhere in his heart, who that really was. Sam was still running this operation, getting high off of watching people suffer the way Dean had let him suffer as a child. His body was numb and quivering at the very thought of opening the door in front of him. Dean walked forward, swallowing his fear and pushing it deep into his stomach, before he kicked open the door.  
  
The gun aimed high, nearly direct with Sam’s head and seeing him standing ready, Dean’s heart throbbed to a pause. The first thing that struck him wasn’t the fact that Sam was aiming a gun at him - no… It wasn’t that his arms were shaking so badly that he could barely hold the barrel straight. Neither of those. It was the crumpled, bleeding, sobbing man, bound and gagged near Sam, shoulders spasming with each heavy, painful sob. His eyes flashed wide and flitted back to Sam.  
  
“Dean…” Sam said, voice mingling confusion and feigned delight at seeing him all over again. He slowly, cautiously lowered the gun from its threatening position at Dean, raising his finger from the trigger.  
  
“Sam, what’s happ-ening?” he croaked. His eyes were stung with tears, face blanched by fear. “Wh- What are you doing to him?”  
  
Dean’s voice was small, wet and childish, like a frightened six-year-old who’d walked into a heated fight. His fingers twitched at the trigger, holding the gun with both hands only doing so much to steady his aim.  
  
“Dean, you know that he’s bad, right?” Sam asked softly, “You and me-- Hey. You and me talked about this, right? He’s trying to bring this down on us, Dean.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yes, he is.” Sam insisted, still not releasing the gun.  
  
“Sam, put it down.” Dean said, jerking his gun in the direction of Sam’s pistol. “P-Put it down, and kick it over here.”  
  
Sam lowered his gun further, but didn’t place it down. “Dean, you and me discussed this--”  
  
“Sam, stop!”  
  
“You were good.”  
  
“I _am_ good!” Dean cried, tears slipping from his eyes and burning their way down his cheeks.

“But you want to bring his down, too- You want to bring _us_ down?” Sam challenged, voice growing louder and more fearsome as he went on, “You want this to burn up - You don’t want what you and I have anymore?”

“I do!” Dean shouted, shutting his eyes and trembling in his own skin. “I do - I want it, I do, I do…”  
  
“Then what are you doing, Dean?” Sam demanded, hissing. “What is this, if you don’t want this to stop?”  
  
“I… I-I don’t… I don’t know, please, Sammy-”  
  
Sam glowered at him, hazel eyes dark and dangerously narrowed. “Dean, he _bought_ you. ...You know what the others who bought you wanted, right? Remember them?” -Dean nodded- “Remember how they just wanted a warm body to fuck?! _He just wants a warm body to fuck!_ That’s why he took you!”  
  
Dean shook his head, but Sam only stood in defiance. “Yes it is - _Yes it is,_ Dean. The only reason he wanted you was because you’re a hole for him. That’s the only reason any of them wanted you. Except me.”  
  
“No.” came a choked, wet voice from the floor. Cas struggled to speak through the gag, but his protest was heard loud and clear. “No - no, no, no…”  
  
Sam’s eyes darted between his brother and the man on the floor. Only when Cas wriggled onto his side, groaning in pain and craning his neck just to see Dean, did he see that Castiel’s jeans were open. He could see the dark cotton of his boxers, peeking through the undone pants, his mind on fire right now.  
  
Dean couldn’t live with himself if Castiel had been hurt the way he’d been hurt. He choked in the back of his throat, feeling disgust wash over him in an icy envelopment. His friend had been violated by Sam, like Sam violates everyone he touches, and who did Dean have to blame for that? Hands clamped relentlessly on his gun, he aimed it steady and strong at Sam.  
  
“Put the gun down.” Dean ordered. “O-On the floor, now.”  
  
Sam seemed to stutter at hearing Dean talk with a tinge of dominance in his voice. Out of sheer surprise and confusion, Sam placed the gun on the floor and kicked it over to Dean wordlessly.  
  
 _“And now, you’re his.”_  
  
Dean cringed, hearing Sam’s voice trickle through his mind. It wove in and out, groping and molesting, raping him to pieces, starving him, watching him shrivel. This was the very same Sam that had once been sweet enough to wait for him by the bus stop, for as long as it took for him to get there.  
  
 _“Don’t misunderstand, Dean…”_  
  
He remembered. Dean remembered all of it. Sam’s eyes bored into his thin, quivering body, and he knew that his little brother had more physical strength in one arm than Dean had in his entire frame. Dean held his gun at arm’s-length, staying his distance from Sam, even as the man shifted his weight and was about to step forward.  
  
 _“...you’ve been beautiful and good, but it’s time for you to go.”_  
  
Sam had barely yet lunged, before Dean snapped and his finger squeezed the trigger.  
  
His arms shook, eyes flashing wide in alarm as he watched the bullet tear through Sam’s chest, knocking him backward onto the floor. Sam’s tall, built frame seemed to crumble beneath him, as he gasped and tumbled to the ground, Castiel letting out an involuntary cry of shock.  
  
Dean couldn’t breathe or move. His body was frozen stock-still, hands tight around the gun, a kind of horrible numbness enveloping him all over. Blood pulsed in ribbons and rivulets from Sam’s chest, streaking and painting it red. It was here that he felt the feeling that he didn’t know the name of - that frightening awareness that came over him when he realized he could breathe, easier now, that his threat had been destroyed.   
  
And only to feel that because he’d killed his nightmare.  
  
 _“Dean…”_


	9. Epilogue

Castiel sat where Dean often sat, curled up in the hot water of the bathtub. It was as early as their first meeting that they had bathed Dean, cleansing his wounds and bandaging him up. Castiel had been tender and careful with the raw cuts and sensitive bruises, and even though Dean wouldn’t tell him if it hurt, Cas would always watch for that little wince of pain.  
  
The tables had turned upon them, now leaving Dean to walk a very hurt, very damaged Castiel upstairs, to unclothe him and clean him up. His ribs were fractured, but there wasn’t much to do about them now, except keep his weight off of the healing bones and make sure he was taken care of. Castiel was unsteady on his feet, so Dean held him cautiously and helped him push his clothes into a pile on the floor.  
  
He led Cas to the bath, helping him to delicately slide into the water and keep pressure off his damaged bones. Dean thought he’d help Cas wash his chest of blood, disinfect the cuts and bruises. He picked up the sponge and dunked it in the water, then squeezing it gently and moving to carefully run it down Cas’s hurt chest.  
  
Castiel winced.  
  
“Sorry.” Dean murmured quickly, keeping his voice soft. “Tell me if it hurts.”  
  
His friend almost gave a small smile.  
  
It was humorless, but still it was almost a smile. Induced by what, he couldn’t tell. Dean squeezed the sponge over his chest instead, and water streamed from it in rivulets. His very heart - as if it weren’t beaten and broken enough from what he’d done - was now weeping for Castiel. Part of him still wished that Cas had picked someone else to save, that he’d left Dean to die.  
  
All he could listen to was the quiet plop, plop, plopping of water dripping from the bathtub faucet. There was no room in his mind for wishes and preferences. He watched Castiel’s pale, blanched-white body quiver beneath the subtle caress of warm water, the bruises purpled and reddened into his flesh. His large, angular hands clamped onto the edges of the bathtub, white-knuckling through the pain as Dean cleaned him up.  
  
“Dean... “ Cas managed.  
  
“I… I don’t want to say it.” Dean hiccuped quietly, tears stinging his eyes once more.  
  
He knew what Castiel wanted to say, to talk about, or scold him for. A part of him whined with the need to run away again, but every part of him wanted to say. He could no more breathe than he could think, but for all he was worth, he helped Castiel cleanse his wounds that night.  
  
When he’d finished cleaning off his injuries, Dean gently levered him out of the bathtub and sat him down. He dried Cas by patting him with a towel and then started splashing clinical antiseptic onto his split skin, to prevent infection. Neither of them spoke through the entire process. When that was all done, Dean wiped at a stray tear that had managed to escape his friend’s eye, the salty drop kissing its way down his cheek, and then it was swiped away by Dean’s thumb.  
  
He wrapped bandages all around Cas’s middle, the way he’d had done before to his own wounds, watching some blood and antiseptic seep through the bandaging. He made sure that Cas was aided in his walk to his bedroom.  
  
Castiel groaned through gritted teeth when he was laid down. Dean could imagine his friend’s body creaking in pain.  
  
Sam always did have a powerful kick.  
  
“C’mere…” Cas mumbled, motioning for Dean to lay beside him.  
  
Dean wasn’t certain if he should. He felt horrible and tainted for what he’d done that day, and for how many people had suffered and died because of him. The hostages had been saved, but it still felt wrong to lay in the warm embrace of the person he’d damaged. Dean might as well have done it with his own hands. Even so, he obeyed Castiel’s wish and laid beside him, very careful as he curled up with his friend so as to avoid putting pressure on fractured ribs.  
  
Dean felt sick, unworthy of sharing a bed with someone like Castiel. Where Cas was beautiful and enduring, ready to give up his life for a group of captive strangers, Dean was filthy and soiled by his brother, beaten into a sloppy mess of abandonment issues and trauma.  
  
He cringed when Cas stroked his shoulder.  
  
“Dean… you were so brave, today.” Castiel said, voice weak and soft. “You… You could’ve died - could’ve gotten yourself killed, but you were so brave. You protected yourself, and me.”  
  
“I murdered my brother today…” Dean whispered back, “Are you saying that it was... justified?”  
  
“I’m saying… if you didn’t save those people, Sam would’ve killed them all, eventually.” Cas said, pausing for a moment to breathe. Dean knew how hard it was to get adequate oxygen, when your ribs were fractured. “I watched you bring those people out… one by one, never stopped, never slowed down.”  
  
Dean felt a blush crescenting his cheeks, however hollow they may have been. Colour flooded back into his skin for the first time, that night. He listened to the injured quiet of Castiel’s breathing, and heard his friend’s heart beating strong.  
  
“I’ve said it before… I’ll say it again.” Cas murmured, turning his head to look at Dean with nothing but warmth. “You’re the sweetest, most wholesome person I know. It often seems… like the most hurt of us all, are the most forgiving.”  
  
He pressed a warm, soft kiss to Dean’s forehead, squeezing his shoulder with surprising strength. He whispered a quick “I love you” before he nuzzled at Dean’s hair. Something was broken here, that was for certain. Some things would never heal inside Dean because of the nature of his past, but he knew that no matter how long it took, Castiel would make the scrapes and bruises go away.  
  
With tender kisses, long-awaited words of love, and the right bandages, they could heal eachother. Dean had faith in that. He leaned into Castiel’s embrace, kissing the soft spot under his jaw, and letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. With Castiel by his side, he would never let anyone take his strength again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride with you guys, but we made it :)  
> Thank you so much for reading, and for all your encouragement along the way. You have no idea how much it means to me. <3


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